Someone laughed, abruptly silenced by a glare from Ryshad. “Master Knife’s a character in half the tales the puppetry men put on,” he explained. “You’ll find three down every alley at Festival.”
“But we can turn the Valiant Flag over and shake it till something falls out,” said Naer with relish. “Verd, drum up the sworn and put the fear of the lash into the recognised. They’ll be on watch for the rest of the night.”
“I’ll need my sword,” Ryshad told him.
“When do we leave?” Temar felt growing excitement.
“You’re not coming!” Naer told him. “I’m not taking you down to the cloth yards, the Sieur would have my hide. Nor you, Rysh. All the proven are out being entertained, Stoll’s down at the sword school even supposing he’s still upright. You’re senior man on the watch tonight, my friend, and that means you get the gate.”
“Naer!” Ryshad protested.
“He got in on my Watch, Rysh.” Naer’s face turned ugly. “I’ll go and slap his pal in chains, not you. You lot, get yourself in hand!”
Temar watched Naer round up his troops, driving them through the gate with a mixture of harsh curses and warm encouragement.
“I’m too tired for this,” Ryshad said absently. He sighed. “So we get the gate, well, I do. Go to bed, Temar; one of us might as well get some sleep.”
“I’ll wait with you,” Temar insisted. “I must tell Avila what’s occurred as soon as she returns.”
“And I can tell Messire and Camarl,” said Ryshad without enthusiasm. He pulled up a stool by the watch room fire as a handful of eager young men in livery appeared. “You, go and get the makings for some tisanes from the kitchens, will you? Plenty of white amella. And do any of you know your way around the North Bay well enough to take a letter?”
Temar watched as Ryshad rummaged in the sergeant’s desk for paper and ink. “I’ll have that pen after you,” he said.
CHAPTER FIVE
Preface to the Chronicle of D’Olbriot,
Under the Seal of Sieur Glythen, Winter Solstice
in the 13th Year of Decabral the Virtuous
The Convocation of Princes was a fraught affair this year, and even allowing for the defences of wax and honour I wonder quite what I should record within these leaves. But I have my own duty to discharge, to leave an accurate record for those that take up the guardianship of our House after me. Raeponin be my witness and let the truth shame any hostile eyes that read this.
The proximate cause of the uproar among the Princes was an intemperate declaration sent to the Adjurist from the city of Col in the erstwhile province of Einar Sai Emmin. It has long been a treasured hope among the sons of Decabral that Col might be the first lost outpost reclaimed from the ashes of the Chaos and thus a foundation on which to build a new Empire among those ragged lordlings of the west. I would say any such expectation is now irretrievably dashed by the hostility provoked by Decabral“s highhanded actions over this last year. This parchment over the seal of the Elected firstly confirms that the leading citizens of Col have revived their bygone forms of governance, and secondly vigorously refutes our Emperor’s assertion that any such rule based on Old Imperial practice must acknowledge his suzerainty. The snub implicit in addressing this document to the Adjurist Den Perinal was unmistakable and served only to rouse Decabral”s ire still further.
The Sieurs Tor Kanselin and Den Sauzet roundly rebuked the Emperor’s behaviour in making such a declaration, particularly given all the Convocation’s advice to the contrary last winter. Den Perinal agreed, saying hasty actions in times of uncertainty seldom prosper, making reference in the same breath to the confusion among the Princes after the unexpected death of the Emperor’s late brother the Nervous. I dared hope such an attack might provoke Decabral into some folly but he restrained himself, choosing to argue in angry defence that securing Col is crucial to restraining the aspirations of the self-declared Dukes of Lescar and resurgent ambition in the Caladhrian Parliament. The Sieur Tor Arrial agreed that Tormalin strength in arms to east and west might well give both provinces pause for thought. This prompted widespread astonishment before Tor Arrial turned his speech to scathing condemnation of Decabral’s fantasies. He speculated whether such nonsense was the result of overindulgence in strong liquors, aromatic smokes or apothecaries’ nostrums, to wide amusement.
I had thought Tor Arrial might call for a formal censure but he sees as well as the rest of us that those Sieurs he has so hastily ennobled over the past ten years still slavishly support Decabral. Since these lapdogs know full well their place by the fireside depends solely on their master throwing them his half-gnawed bones, they will certainly defend him. We had thought Den Ferrand and D’Estabel were wavering over the summer but the Emperor bought their loyalty afresh with grants of monopoly rights to tax salt and lead production.
My sole consolation is that such typically shortsighted behaviour has only served to alienate the differing factions within Tor Decabral still further. The Empress’s supposedly temporary departure for the Solland estates is now widely seen as a permanent move and her house there is taking on the air of a court in exile. Now that her eldest son is of age, he is of increasing interest to those scions of the Name who have been content to suffer Decabral the Virtuous’s tactlessness for the sake of keeping the Imperial throne within the family. The Emperor’s elder brother, Messire Manaire, has held himself aloof, and his own estates in Moretayne have long been a sanctuary for those hostile to the present regime. He was present in Toremal for Festival for the first time in some handful of years and made no secret of the extensive Solstice gifts he had sent his sister by marriage. Messire Manaire is past the age where he could reasonably expect elevation to Imperial honours, but his own sons would be well placed to succeed any son of the Empress who could succeed his father in short order. More significantly his trusted advisors have been hinting Manaire has finally forgiven his sister Maitresse Balene for her oppositon to his own ambitions on the death of their father, the Patient. Her marriage into Den Leoril could prove highly significant as her covey of daughers is now so widely married into so many influential families.
While many of us would prefer to see a complete change of dynasty, we might settle for a change of Imperial incumbent, since that would at least enable those newly ennobled Houses so dependent on Tor Decabral patronage to cover their treachery with a modest veil of continued loyalty to the Name. The year that opens with the dawn so rapidly approaching promises to be an interesting one.
The D’Olbriot Residence Gatehouse,
Summer Solstice Festival, Fourth Day, Morning
Shapeless horrors crushed me, faceless and formless, weaving a nightmare of inexorable, suffocating foulness out of my inarticulate terror.
“Chosen Tathel?” The soft but insistent knock at the door was repeated. “Ryshad?”
I woke with a start, and for one choking moment it seemed the torment had come too, breaking out of my dreams to smother me. Then I realised someone had come in during the night and drawn the bed curtains closed around me, doubtless meaning to be kind. My heart slowed from its chest-bursting race.
“Yes?” I wished a silent pox on the uninvited curtain puller and for whoever was waking me up.
“There’s a note.” The door muffled the voice.
Ripping back the curtains, I went to untie the latchstring. One of Stolley’s newer lads held out a neatly sealed letter addressed in sloping Lescari script. He hovered hopefully, waiting for me to open the subtly fragrant folds.