“I paid her, what do you think?” As Firon smiled in hesitant relief, the man leaned close, voice cruel. “Just enough to pay her way with Poldrion, then I made sure that’s the last price the slut’ll ever bargain.”
“I’m not frightened of you!” The sweaty pallor Casuel could see soaking the colour from Firon’s face plainly contradicted his shaking words.
“Well said, your honour.” The other man released the Esquire’s crushed fingers. “Anyway, you needn’t be afraid of me. I just follow my orders, after all. It’s my principal you should worry about, who’s not best pleased, truth be told.”
“I’ve done everything asked of me,” Firon protested.
“So you have,” smiled the newcomer. “So go home and chew your thassin or find some warm little whore to cuddle. I’ll let you know when we want something else. As long as you don’t get greedy we’ll all win out in the end, won’t we?”
Firon fiddled with the purse in his hand, avoiding the other man’s eye. “When will I hear from you?”
The other man stood up. “Soon enough.” He moved away as Firon was hailed by another young noble, whose expansive movements suggested he’d already drunk more than was wise so early in the day. Casuel tried to split his magic to follow both men but only succeeded in breaking the spell beyond repair, splinters of ensorcelled air darting invisibly in all directions.
The mage shifted from one foot to the other in an agony of indecision, trying to keep both men in view while staying within the protective shadow of the curtain. He drew back as Firon came closer to the stage, now intent on a girl with brassy blonde hair and a torn flounce to her gown. She was flirting with another young noble who Casuel couldn’t quite put a Name to. Firon caught the girl by the shoulder and she turned with a well-rehearsed expression of delight that faded as soon as she recognised him. Firon raised the hand holding the purse and the girl smiled again.
“That’s the only music sweet enough for her ears.” Amalin was a few paces away, studying a sheaf of music.
“Who is she?” Casuel asked.
“Too expensive for your purse, Cas.” Amalin looked up from his score. “That’s Demoiselle Yeditta Den Saerdel.”
Casuel’s face reflected the question he hadn’t dared ask.
“You thought she was a whore? No, she’s far more choosy and far more expensive. You need an old Name and a fat purse before that one spreads her frills for you. Still, you’ll get an education you’ll never find in Hadrumal if you go sniffing after her.” Amalin went to stop a dispute between a carpenter and a painter.
Casuel watched an eager knot gathering round Firon and Yeditta, reckless youths in grimy linen and girls with cosmetics clashing brutally against the hectic colour rising on their cheeks. With brash boasts and extravagant gestures they all talked at once in an unintelligible muddle. At some signal from the brazen blonde the whole collection moved towards the door.
There was no way he could follow without being noticed, Casuel decided hastily. Nor was there anything to be gained watching whatever debauch they were planning to disgrace their Names. D’Olbriot already knew Den Thasnet was hostile. What Casuel needed to find out was who was pulling Firon’s strings, as deftly as any puppeteer working Amalin’s gaudy marionettes. He sighed with relief when he saw the man in brown talking to a dissatisfied maiden with heavily shadowed eyes trailing a wine-stained shawl from one hand.
A lutanist walked past and Casuel tried to match the musician’s nonchalant saunter down the steps. Keeping that brown coat in sight was no easy task down on the crowded floor of the theatre, but this was neither the time nor place to work magic. Overlavish perfume and stale sweat caught at the back of Casuel’s throat and he coughed. At least that made those closest step away with distasteful glances and Casuel caught a glimpse of the sombrely dressed man among the bolder colours all around.
This was no time for civility, Casuel realised, with these wastrels paying no one any heed, shoving and jostling without a by-your-leave. Biting his lip, Casuel used elbows and shoulders to worm his way between laughing embraces and belligerent disputes, ducking a retaliatory swing of some Esquire’s arm, scarlet with embarrassment as he inadvertently set a covey of girls fluttering apart with shrill rebukes.
Finally gaining the fresh air outside with a gasp of relief, he couldn’t delay to recover his composure. The man in brown was heading towards the old city, steady pace suggesting some specific destination. A gap opened up ahead of Casuel and he moved to outflank a goodwife laden with packages but a sturdy dray rattling past made him think again. Better to suffer the jostling on the flagway than risk being squashed flatter than a frog’s foot. Casuel forced his way on through the crowd, apologising, tripping, heart pounding and hoping against hope the man in brown wouldn’t hail a passing gig.
Den Murivance Residence,
Summer Solstice Festival, Fourth Day, Afternoon
Are you enjoying the music?” Camarl offered Temar a crystal goblet of pale pink wine.
“Is this what they call the Rational style?” Temar asked cautiously.
Both men looked at the elegant quintet playing under a rose-garlanded bower in the middle of an immaculate lawn. Smartly dressed and richly jewelled nobles walked past, pausing here and there to admire the precisely patterned flowers. A riot of summer colour around the serene grass was confined within strictly clipped box hedges, an arc of orange here, a square of scarlet there, framed by sprigs of gold and green. Tall yew hedges rose dark behind the flowers, and beyond Temar could hear polite laughter. The musicians finished their piece with a decorous flourish, rewarded with appreciative applause.
“No, this is something new, reworking country tunes in the style of old shrine liturgies.” Camarl sounded a little vague. “Adding counterpoint, harmonies, that kind of thing.”
“It is very pleasant.” Temar sipped the scented wine to hide his disdain. The gods couldn’t even hold their music sacred any more.
Camarl was still talking. “Amalin Devoir’s one of the leading composers in the new style.”
Temar looked up. “Casuel’s brother?”
“Yes,” Camarl chuckled. “Not that you’d ever know it from our mage. He’s made quite a name for himself, Amalin that is. He started as a double-pipe player, I believe, but was soon hiring out his own troupe. He must have an eye for business because he built one of the biggest theatres in the city from the ground up a year or so ago.” He looked at the slowly circulating Esquires and Demoiselles. “We should go down there one evening, once Festival’s over. It’s all very informal, just light-hearted nonsense.”
“That would make a pleasant change,” agreed Temar.
“Festival’s all entertainment for the commonalty but that kind of leisure’s a luxury our coin can’t buy,” Camarl said frankly. “There’s so little time to see everyone. But you can take a little more time to enjoy yourself. The Sieur and I will secure Kellarin’s interests.”
“For which you have my thanks,” said Temar politely. He looked round the myriad unknown faces and insignia. He’d still far rather be managing Kel Ar’Ayen’s concerns himself, if only he had the faintest idea where to start.
“There’s Irianne Tor Kanselin.” Camarl’s tone brightened.
“Go and talk to her,” urged Temar. “Unless you think I need a chaperone.”
Camarl’s laugh surprised Temar. “I’ll see you later.” Camarl walked briskly towards his affianced and Temar watched as the girl’s face lit up.
Temar sighed; Guinalle had never greeted him with that kind of delight, even during the brief dalliance that had meant so much more to him than to her. He began his own leisurely circuit of the Den Murivance gardens, exchanging polite nods and smiles. Whenever someone looked as if they might do more, Temar picked up his pace. He couldn’t face trying to remember Names and families, more questions about his unexpected injury, his hopes for Kellarin, subtle enquiries as to his precise standing with D’Olbriot and what he thought of the arguments before the Emperor. A growing sense of inadequacy aggravated Temar. He hadn’t spoken to a fifth the people Camarl had, arranging later discussions about ships for Kel Ar’Ayen, suggesting merchants who might link the distant colony’s riches to a given House’s resources. The knowledge he should be grateful to Camarl exasperated Temar still further, so he walked away through an arch of well-trained yew.