“Cas? Someone said you wanted me?” An impatient voice at his shoulder made the wizard jump.
“What? No, not particularly.” Casuel turned to see his brother looking askance.
“Then what are you doing here?” demanded Amalin.
“I’m about the Archmage’s business,” said Casuel loftily, glancing back at Den Thasnet, who was still sitting alone. “And Messire D’Olbriot’s. Nothing to do with you.”
“It is if you’re doing it in my theatre,” Amalin retorted robustly. “Is this something to do with all those questions you had the other day? I told you, I’ve no idea which noble House is slandering another, and I’ve less interest. All that concerns me is which ones pay prompt.”
Casuel sniffed. “Ever the merchant. You peddle your music like a wandering harpist.”
“At least it’s a honest trade, Master Mage,” sneered Amalin. “Mother’s not ashamed to tell her sewing circle about my latest triumphs. Did I tell you I’ve written a new round dance for the Emperor’s entertainment tomorrow?”
Casuel looked resolutely back at Firon, who was chewing a thumbnail and looking around sourly.
“So who are you spying on, Cas?” Appreciably taller, Amalin peered easily over the wizard’s shoulder. “The charming Esquire Den Thasnet?”
“Do you know him? Why? How?”
Amalin chuckled unpleasantly. “Oh, you’ll talk to me when you want to know something?”
“Don’t play the fool, Amalin,” snapped Casuel. “This is important.”
“So’s rehearsing my musicians.” Amalin turned to leave.
“What would it do for your career if I told Messire D’Olbriot how uncooperative you’re being?” threatened Casuel.
“Not much harm,” Amalin shrugged. “They’re saying the old Sieur’s out of favour with the Emperor anyway.”
Casuel gaped. “Who’s saying?”
“Him, and his cronies.” Amalin nodded at Firon Den Thasnet. “Not that I pay much heed. Den Thasnet owes more money to more entertainers than any other House in the city. Say what you like about D’Olbriot, the stiff old stick pays up by return messenger.”
“You’d go a good deal further in your chosen profession with a little more respect for your betters,” said Casuel bitingly.
“Bowing and scraping to anyone entitled to call themselves Den Something?” scoffed Amalin. “Why should I? Half of your so-called nobles live on credit and wishful thinking. It’s honest traders like Father brought me the coin to build this place. They pay in full the moment the last note sounds at their banquets.”
“Paying for lewd masquerades danced by girls no better than common trollops, you mean,” retorted Casuel. “I’m surprised to see you still bothering with proper puppetry.” He waved a hand at the marionettes hanging high above their heads, each as tall as a child, a masterpiece of woodwork dressed with a tailor’s finest skill.
“I’ll stage whatever pays, Cas.” Amalin’s smile was mocking. “Same as I’ll let these wastrels use my place for their meetings and intrigues just as long as they pay with both hands for the privilege of drinking cheap wine while they do it.”
“It’s all just counting coin with you, isn’t it?” Casuel did his best to look down his nose at the taller man.
“At least I don’t need Mother sending me money to put the clothes on my back.” Amalin winked at him. “And my boots don’t stink of horseshit either.”
“Then why do you look as if you fell out of some charity guild’s ragbag?” countered Casuel.
Amalin brushed a negligent hand down his faded shirt, frayed at collar and cuffs. “Work clothes, Cas, but you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“Amalin? Where do you want this?” The summons from the far side of the stage saved Casuel from having to find a suitable retort. Amalin’s arrogance really was intolerable, he raged silently. He had no respect for rank, wrapped up in his petty concerns and this tawdry sham of a world he’d built for himself. Casuel watched Amalin walk away with a faintly familiar-looking dark-haired man. No stomach for continuing the debate, little brother? Well, it wasn’t the first time Casuel had set him right on a few things.
He looked back into the crowd to see Firon Den Thasnet deep in conversation with someone. Who was it? What had he missed? Cursing Amalin for distracting him, Casuel struggled to calm himself sufficiently to float an invisible stream of magic drawn from air and light over the heads of the revellers. Concentrating hard, he waited impatiently for words to drift down the spell.
“—this, that, the other,” hissed Firon. “I do it and what do I have to show? That fool of a boy got his arse well and truly kicked by D’Olbriot’s man, so that dog won’t hunt again. And your so-called advocate made a piss-poor showing over the Land Tax. What have you got to say about that?”
“I recommended the best advocate for the coin you were willing to pay,” shrugged the newcomer. “I fail to see how you can blame me when D’Olbriot hires a more experienced man. Anyway, even if they’re not being taxed on Kellarin for last year, there’s been no judgement about next, has there? That game’s still in play.”
Casuel moved as far as he dared beyond the shelter of the curtains, trying to work out who the man might be. Of an age with Firon’s own father, and Casuel’s come to that, he was a good height, iron grey hair soberly cut, face unremarkable in its placid pleasantness. He wore no identifiable colours, merely a plain brown coat and breeches well tailored from good cloth. Casuel frowned; the clothes were styled like livery and that was no merchants’ fashion. Something about his manner was reminiscent of an upper servant as well.
“You said I’d find plenty of backing against D’Olbriot.” Firon’s complaints were rising. “Where is it? Any time I said yesterday they’re just getting what they deserve, all I got was the cold shoulder.”
“Keep your nerve and people will come over to your way of thinking,” said the newcomer firmly. “Bringing all the rewards we discussed. Look at the cases brought before the Emperor yesterday. At least one of them will trip Burquest, no matter how fast he dances round the truth. Your side of the scales will rise, just as soon as D’Olbriot’s sinks.”
“Oh, will it?” Firon looked sceptical. “High enough to match me to a girl of rank who can still bring a decent coffer of coin? My father’s talking about selling me off to some fat-arsed merchant’s ugly daughter, he’s so desperate for some ready gold—”
The other man slapped a light backhand into Firon’s mouth. “Watch your tongue,” he said with genial warning. “Show a little respect.”
Shock sent a shudder through Casuel’s magic that nearly scattered the spell and he stepped back into the concealing curtains. Who was this man to dare such insult?
The blow hadn’t been hard enough to leave a mark but Firon’s face was scarlet all the same. “Show respect, have more patience, set yourself up for a mighty fall if this all goes rancid! All our dealings go just one way, don’t they?” he sneered. “When will I see some return on this venture?”
The newcomer smiled thinly before reaching into the breast of his well-cut coat. He brought out a leather pouch and folded Firon’s hand around it.
“Here’s a little on account.” The man held Firon’s fingers tight and Casuel saw pain chase perplexity across his spotty forehead. “Spend it wisely for a change and don’t let wine or thassin loosen your tongue. There are enough stupid whores, so don’t bother with another one canny enough to pick some truth out of your boasting. Some girl you had down by the docks came knocking on my door a few days ago, looking for an open purse to shut her mouth.” The man’s tone was amiable but the threat was unmistakable.
“What did you—” Firon looked sick.