Temar made to stand as well but Camarl laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. I nodded a farewell to them both. “Your fight’s right here, Temar,” I said lightly. “Look amused if Camarl’s smiling, and you can look hurt if the Sieur turns round to commiserate. Don’t ever look angry, don’t look triumphant or smug. I’ll find out who posted that challenge, if Raeponin wields any justice at all, and we’ll hold a council of war this evening.”
Avila turned, face indignant. “I’ll thank you not to use the god’s name so lightly, Ryshad.”
She would have said more but the Sieur stood up, setting renewed interest busy around the gallery. “Defend the honour of our House.” He held both my hands between his, looking deep into my eyes. “And take every care you can, Ryshad.”
Making my way out of the courtroom, curious faces on all sides, I felt I had some invisible advocate at my shoulder asking silent questions. Surely the Sieur wanted me safe for my own sake, not merely because my defeat would reflect badly on the House? In any case, wasn’t Messire entitled to both concerns? Had he abandoned me to Planir and the wizards of Hadrumal out of callousness, or had he been forced by simple expediency? Were the resentments I’d been struggling with any more justified than the half-thought-out arguments of Tor Priminale and the like?
I ripped open the constricting collar of my livery as I strode out of the courts and headed for the sword school. I’d find time to look for answers to all that later. For now I had to fight whoever turned up to prove my fitness for honour or take a piece out of my worthless hide. If that was all there was to this challenge, I’d meet it head on, but if there was more to it, if I faced swords paid for by some noble dissatisfied with the proxy battles of the law courts, I wanted to know who was behind it all as much as Messire.
The Imperial Court,
Summer Solstice Festival, Third Day,
Late Morning
Temar shifted on the hard wooden bench. Feeling an ominous twinge of cramp in one calf muscle, he tried to point his toes inside his highly polished boots. The bell behind the screen rang briskly and Den Muret’s advocate sprang to his lectern, clutching yet another parchment with writing faded nigh to invisible. Then a man in scarlet opened the door to the screen hiding the Emperor, exchanging a brief word with the Justiciar who’d administered those meaningless oaths. Temar looked eagerly at this first distraction in he couldn’t recall how long. This man’s robe had black trim to sleeves and hem and a loose cord around the neck rather than the advocates’ circles of braid. Wasn’t that cord made into a noose? No, that couldn’t be right. Temar wondered why these two wore red when everyone else was in grey. What was the Emperor wearing?
Den Muret’s advocate cleared his throat nervously and resumed his rapid mumble. Taking a deep breath, Temar restrained an impulse to rub his eyes and stifled a yawn. Even so vast a room was growing stuffy as the sun rose towards noon outside, and all the doors and windows stayed closed. He tried schooling his face to a bland mask of interest like Camarl’s. Plenty of people in the close-packed gallery were looking his way, some merely curious, some plainly hostile. The Den Murivance girl kept glancing at him, fanning herself thoughtfully. It was a shame he wasn’t sitting next to a girl, Temar thought, to get the benefit of a fan.
A discreet nudge startled Temar out of this inconsequential reverie. Camarl was smiling with rueful amusement, the Sieur turning to look at them with a mingled regret and enjoyment. Temar did his best to match their expressions, wondering what he’d missed. He was lucky to understand one sentence in three, given the pace and fluidity of the advocates’ language.
What had Den Muret’s man done to gratify Camarl and the Sieur? Faint discomfort was plain on more than one Den Rannion face in the far gallery. Temar glanced at their advocate, but the man’s ascetic face was all unreadable bony angles. He sighed softly to himself. He’d never have imagined he could find himself facing Vahil’s family in a court of law, with all these people squabbling over Kel Ar’Ayen like dogs tearing at a fat carcass.
The little bell sounded three sharp notes and everyone in the floor of the court instantly sprang to life, clerks gathering up sheaves of documents, advocates leaning close in urgent conversation. Temar looked down to see Master Burquest walking towards the door, chatting with someone in scarlet robes.
“What is happening?” Temar got hastily to his feet a breath after everyone else.
“The Emperor has called a recess.” Camarl sounded puzzled. “Come on, we need to clear the stairs so everyone else can leave.”
Temar felt annoyed. It was all very well for Camarl, but no one had bothered to tell Temar the rules of this game.
With spectators crowding down from the gallery and clerks still busy around their tables, a considerable press of people were milling around in the floor of the court. Avila was looking pale by the time they had emerged into the anteroom and Temar was ready to curse the next clerk that jostled him.
“This way.” Camarl led them down a narrow corridor lit only by inadequate lancets. Temar felt panic rising in his throat, at the gloom, at the confinement, at the noise echoing incomprehensibly around high-vaulted ceilings. They turned a corner, and to Temar’s inexpressible relief a door at the far end opened on to real sunlight.
“I must have some air.” He walked briskly, heedless of Camarl’s directions to Master Burquest’s chamber, almost running by the time he stepped through the door. Blinking with the shock of the brightness he heaved a huge sigh of relief, leaning against the wall, feeling the heat the grey stone had soaked up all morning on his back.
“Esquire D’Alsennin, isn’t it?”
Temar squinted at a new arrival closing the door carefully behind him. He realised they were in a small courtyard tucked away among the intricacies of the palace buildings. Well, no one was going to stick a blade in him again. Temar’s hand moved instinctively before he remembered he wasn’t wearing his sword.
“Esquire D’Alsennin?” Temar realised the man was wearing an advocate’s robe as yet unadorned with knots or braid. “I’m Mistal, Ryshad’s brother.”
“How do I know that for the truth?” Temar was alert for any sign of hostile intent.
The lawyer looked nonplussed. “Rysh’ll vouch for me.”
“But he is not here,” retorted Temar. “What do you want?”
The man shoved hands into his breeches pockets, bunching his robe inelegantly. “I wondered if you’re going to see Rysh fight. I came to ask if you needed a guide.” Perhaps this man was Ryshad’s brother. There was some resemblance around the eyes, and he certainly had the same irritated forthrightness.
“I would like to support Ryshad,” Temar said slowly.
Mistal nodded at the great bell tower just visible over a floridly curved gable. “If you’re coming, you’d best tell the Sieur D’Olbriot now.”
Temar hesitated. “I am hardly dressed for anything but this charade.”
“I’ll be swapping this for a jerkin.” Mistal grinned, brushing at one front of his gown. “I can lend you something. Now, are you coming or not?”
“The Sieur will be with Master Burquest.” Temar opened the door and wondered where that might be.
“This way.” Mistal slid past him with faint amusement.
The door to the advocate’s chamber stood open. The lawyer was hanging his robe carefully over the back of a chair while Avila sat on a daybed, sipping a glass of straw-coloured wine, her pallor receding. A lad in shirt and breeches handed Camarl and the Sieur full goblets.
“So Premeller reckons he’s a friend of the court now,” Master Burquest mused. “He’s no friend of anyone else’s and, more to the point, he can’t afford to do this for love of justice. Someone’s paying him, and we’d do well to find out who.”