Casuel poured a little ink into the water and absently summoned emerald radiance to suffuse the bowl. A new notion warmed him. As and when D’Alsennin succeeded in reviving his long-extinct Name, Casuel would have an excellent precedent to argue before the Court of Prerogative when the time came for him to resurrect the House of D’Evoir.
But first he had more immediate matters in hand, he reminded himself hastily. He drew on his memory of Firon Den Thasnet, projecting his recollection of the uncouth stripling’s sneering face into the ensorcelled water. An image coalesced in the green-shaded obscurity, clearing to show the youth reclining on a daybed in a conservatory.
Casuel looked down on Firon. There’d be none of this contempt for wizardry when even Names like Den Thasnet had to acknowledge D’Evoir, seeing a mage of indisputable noble rank was an ally of the Archmage, a confidant of men such as Hearth-Master Kalion.
Casuel looked up from the bowl. Perhaps it was time to consider how best to phrase a direct approach to Kalion? The Hearth-Master made no secret of his conviction that the mundane powers of the mainland must be made to recognise the resources wizardry offered an astute ruler. Kalion would certainly see the advantages of having one of their own to liaise with the Tormalin Names, and who would be better placed than Casuel? Once a few Princes acknowledged Hadrumal’s influence, well-born girls would certainly consider joining him in renewing the Name of D’Evoir, wouldn’t they?
Casuel glanced down and was startled to see his scrying dimming to a mossy dullness. Chagrined, he summoned the magic anew and the image sharpened. Breathing with exquisite care, Casuel drew the picture out, expanding the magic until he saw the Esquire was in a hothouse pavilion at the rear of the Den Thasnet residence. He frowned. The Den Thasnet residence was halfway to the northern heights above the city. There was no way Casuel could be expected to walk that far, not in the full heat of a summer noon. Arriving somewhere all sweaty and dishevelled would undermine the dignity both of wizardry and of D’Olbriot for one thing. But taking a gig from the stables would hardly serve the Sieur or Planir’s insistence on discretion.
He lost his grip on the slippery scrying and the image floated into fragments on the water’s surface. No matter. Casuel shook a remnant of green light from his hands and congratulated himself on visiting so many Houses when they’d last opened their gates at Equinox. He wondered in passing how best to mention this forethought to Planir as he built Den Thasnet’s residence in his mind’s eye, picturing the wide central block, new stone clean and white in the sun, the sloping roof bright with the finest tiles coin could buy, the wings on either side linked by corridors framing courtyards where sparkling fountains reflected in costly expanses of window glass.
Casuel reached for the substance of the breeze that drifted lazily through his open window. He made himself one with the air, feeling its paths and currents and travelling them with the ease of instinct honed with practice. In an instant of brilliant light he crossed the city and found himself standing in the midst of an elegant chequerboard of low-hedged flowerbeds.
“Hey, you!” A gardener shouted, outraged, letting his laden barrow fall to the path with a thud. “Get off my summersilks!”
“I beg your pardon,” Casuel said hastily, trying to avoid doing any more damage as he struggled to the nearest path. He realised with dismay that his expensive boots were covered in some ominous-smelling mulch.
“Where did you spring from?” The gardener approached with growing perplexity. “I thought the gates were closed to visitors today.”
“Don’t concern yourself, my good man.” Casuel tried for a suitably noble tone as he walked off towards the residence. This was the kind of house he would build, Casuel thought, clean, Rational lines matching form and function in precise layout of grounds and building. No, his house would be even finer, given the way architects shared the same ridiculous prejudices against judicious wizardry as everyone else. After all, Casuel’s sympathy with the earth made him the obvious person to judge the best stone to keep a house warm in winter and cool in summer. Even Velindre would find it simple enough to chart the flow of air through a house, and who better to consult about siting a hearth than a mage with a fire affinity? But no, all anyone ever wanted a mage for was shifting quantities of earth, for all the world like that nursery tale of Ostrin and the enchanted shovel. It simply wasn’t fair that wizards were denied any genteel profession by Tormalin disdain for magic.
Conversation behind him interrupted Casuel’s musing and he glanced over his shoulder to see the gardener walking slowly after him. Curse the fellow, he was talking to a man in livery, halberd in hand. Casuel looked from side to side for some discreet corner but Den Thasnet’s desire to shape his gardens to the same height of fashion as his house meant there was precious little growing above knee height. A summerhouse offered the only sanctuary from the inconvenient underlings and Casuel hurried into it.
But what now? The little eight-sided shelter would barely hide an indiscreet kiss, and anyway the man had seen him come in here. Casuel looked out of the window to see the halberdier walking purposefully towards the gazebo. How was he to explain his presence if the House was closed to visitors?
Casuel drew a deep breath and summoned a shimmer of blue light between his hands. He hurriedly drew water from the earth beneath him and fire from the heat of the sun, wrapping himself inside a veil of magic to baffle prying eyes. He stood motionless, breathless as the puzzled man-at-arms looked into the summerhouse, the gardener behind him, brows raised in good-humoured curiosity. “Where’d he go then?”
“Cursed if I know.” The gardener brushed earth off his hands. “I’d have sworn he went in here.”
“Sure you’ve not been tending Esquire Firon’s thassin too closely? Pruning it without opening the windows in the conservatory?” The sworn man laughed.
The gardener smiled thinly. “But he went this way, some sour-faced chap all tricked out like a draper wanting to jump the counter and mix with his betters.”
“I’ll pass the word,” the sworn man shrugged.
The two men walked away slowly, leaving Casuel all but throttled by indignation. What would some muddy day labourer know about fashion anyway? He was about to dissolve the blend of elements when a sudden thought stopped him.
The Archmage had told him to be discreet, so why not stay invisible? Casuel tightened his grip on the elements he was manipulating and added a complex lattice of air to baffle any sound he might make. Walking with agonised care, he went up stone steps to a broad paved terrace, searching for the pavilion where he’d seen Den Thasnet lounging.
There it was, an airy framework of white ironwork sheltering glossy citrus trees and a few unsightly pots of ragged ferns. Casuel peered through the windows to see Den Thasnet taking his ease, sipping from a glass in a silver holder. That was all the increasingly thirsty wizard had to see for what felt like half a season. Finally, as six chimes sounded from a distant timepiece, Firon slammed his drink down on a metal table, impatiently ringing a handbell. A lackey appeared, immediately sent away with brusque gestures and reappearing with a coat that Firon pulled on, tugging at his lacy cuffs with edgy hands. He shoved open a door to the terrace, slamming it back on hinges that squeaked in protest. Keeping firm hold on the sorcery sheltering him, Casuel followed as close as he dared as Firon ran lightly down the steps and through the gardens to the extensive stableyards. The mage’s heart sank as he realised Den Thasnet wore riding boots and was carrying a whip.
“Get me the sorrel gelding.” The Esquire snapped his fingers at a lad carrying a basket of grain. “At once, boy!”
The stable lad ducked away as if he feared a cuff round the ear. Casuel watched in an agony of indecision as the horse was brought out and saddled, Firon all the while tapping his switch impatiently on one boot.