Shallow turf steps ran up to a broad terrace at the northern frontage of the house. Den Murivance’s home had little of the harsh angularity of Tor Kanselin’s, every brick and stone unmistakably ancient. But as Temar has been taken on a suspiciously extended tour, he’d noted all the furnishings looked brand new, quite the height of fashion.
Servants were still clearing away the remains of the recent elegant meal. Temar watched liveried footmen deftly piling plates and serving bowls, maidservants rolling table linen in neat bundles for the laundresses. Lackeys in workaday clothes waited to carry trestles and boards away while more outdoor servants dismantled the garlanded canopies that had shaded guests from the uncaring sun.
Temar castigated himself with painful honesty. You wouldn’t know where to start organising an entertainment like this, never mind running the affairs of a House in this new Tormalin. So why was he here? This wasn’t his place, and never would be. Why wasn’t he out doing something to save those people still senseless in Kel Ar’Ayen, where he really belonged?
“D’Alsennin! You’ll escort a lady into the maze, won’t you?” A fresh-faced Esquire hailed Temar from the entrance to a circle of green hedge. He and a friend were gently teasing a group of Demoiselles somewhere between Temar’s own age and Camarl’s.
Temar identified the Esquire’s marten mask badge as Den Ferrand. “If she wishes.” He bowed politely to the girls. The closest giggled, hazel eyes huge behind her fan of black and azure feathers, but Temar couldn’t identify the malachite insignia inlaid on the silver handle.
“I’m less concerned about escort in than escort out,” said a taller girl. Her chestnut hair was braided in a no-nonsense style and a tiny jewelled sword pinned her lace veil decorously to either shoulder. At least Temar could identify her as Den Hefeken.
“There’s a summerhouse in the centre,” volunteered the youth, brushing unruly black curls with a hand beringed with a sizeable cameo of a rearing horse. “There’s always a steward there with directions out.”
“I’ll go with Meriel,” Den Ferrand took the giggling girl’s hand. “Esquire Den Brennain, will you do me the honour of escorting my sisters?” He bowed extravagantly to the lad with the horse ring and then to two of the girls. One swatted her brother with her grey-and pink-feathered fan but the other blushed prettily as Den Brennain offered his arm.
“Demoiselle Den Hefeken?” Temar bowed.
“My pleasure, Esquire.” She smiled in friendly enough fashion.
“Which way do we go?” The girl Meriel looked around as they moved inside the ring of hedges.
“Do we split up or stay together?” Den Brennain paused as they reached a junction.
“Split up,” said Den Ferrand promptly. “First ones to the middle win—”
“Head of the set at the Emperor’s dance tomorrow?” suggested Demoiselle Den Hefeken.
The general approval suggested this was a prize worth winning. Temar didn’t much care but he followed the Demoiselle obediently as twists and turns took the others down different pathways, conversation muffled by the tall hedges.
“Is this a popular form of entertainment?” he asked the Demoiselle, trying to get his bearings.
“More than listening to our elders and betters negotiating access and revenues and leaseholds,” the girl said cheerfully.
“Indeed,” said Temar with feeling. “So, Demoiselle, do we turn or continue?”
“Call me Orilan.” She considered their options with a slight frown. “Turn, I think.”
Temar followed, but after an abrupt corner the path delivered them into a dead end. Orilan Den Hefeken looked apologetically at Temar, but before she could speak a voice sounded from the far side of the hedge.
“Are you seriously thinking of marrying D’Alsennin, Gelaia?”
“My father’s very keen to point out all the advantages.”
Orilan Den Hefeken smiled tightly at Temar before trying to step past him. He smiled back but didn’t move out of her way.
There was more than one girl giggling beyond the wall of green. “What advantages? He’s handsome enough but he’s four parts foolish! Ressy Tor Kanselin said he hasn’t the first idea about anything.”
“I have, which is what matters to the Sieur D’Olbriot.” Gelaia sounded unconcerned. “D’Alsennin can go back to digging ore and lumber out of his wilderness and I can turn it all into coin this side of the ocean.”
“So you wouldn’t be going with him.” This new voice sounded relieved.
Gelaia was startled into laughter. “Jenty! Have you had too much sun? No, he can keep all the delights of exploration and bad sanitation. I’ll stay here with decent servants and some real influence to play with at last.”
“My Sieur says that D’Alsennin won’t ever be more than a bastard line of D’Olbriot.” It was the first girl again, sounding dubious.
“That depends what I make of it,” countered Gelaia. “And there are worse places to be in D’Olbriot’s shadow. I’ll still be Maitresse of a House, which is more than any of my other suitors can offer.”
The murmurs of agreement were coloured with envy.
“It’ll be a mighty small House, just the two of you,” commented Jenty slyly.
“He’ll need to come over for Winter and Summer Solstices for the first few years,” Gelaia said airily. “It shouldn’t take too long for him to get me breeding. In the meantime, I’ll be entitled to a married woman’s consolations.”
“Don’t get caught wrong-footed,” Jenty warned. “Everyone’ll count the seasons when your belly swells.”
“I’m sure Lady Channis will advise me.” Scandalised laughter drowned the rest of Gelaia’s words.
“But, Gella, taking him to your bed—” A young voice hovered between consternation and longing.
“Whatever else’s changed since the Chaos, I imagine that’s done the same way,” giggled Gelaia.
“My sister say a man generally wakes with a keen interest in his wife,” Jenty remarked with spurious innocence. “What must a man be feeling after sleeping away twenty-some generations?”
Temar had heard enough. He offered Orilan Den Hefeken his arm and escorted her back down the path. She glanced at Temar over the orange feathers of her fan, colour high on her cheekbones. “Gelaia wouldn’t have spoken like that if she’d known you were there.”
“That is scant consolation,” said Temar tightly. “I am old-fashioned, I know, but I look for mutual affection to prompt a wedding, not well-matched ledgers.”
“Affection grows, given time and good will on both sides, that’s what my mother taught me. A good match with love to gild it is certainly a blessing, but marrying for passion is hardly rational.” Orilan stopped, forcing Temar to halt. She looked at him, grey eyes searching. “Tell me it wasn’t ever thus, even in your day?”
Temar recalled some his grandsire’s forthright lectures. “Certainly Raeponin always set restrictions in the balance against the privilege of rank.”
“Shall we try this way?” Orilan started walking. “Forgive my frankness, Esquire, but surely you need someone to guide you through the complexities of Toremal, just as surely as we need some way through this maze.”
“Are you offering?” Temar tried for a flirtatious tone.
Orilan laughed. “I was affianced at Winter Solstice. By the turn of the year I will be happily learning to love my husband under Den Risiper’s roof.”
“My felicitations.” Temar concentrated on finding a path through the maze. In fewer turns than he expected, the hedges ushered them onto a small lawn around a little pool where Arimelin stood demure in greenish bronze beneath a tree-shaped fountain. A newly painted gazebo shaded a polite steward holding a jug.