“Who is he and how do you know him?” Temar tried to make his question no more than idle chat.
“He was personal man to the last Sieur Tor Bezaemar,” Den Ferrand replied.
“The man who knew everything and everyone,” Den Brennain laughed. “That’s what they called him, but he was pensioned off a few seasons ago.”
“Then what—” Casuel subsided beneath a stern look from Temar.
“So who is the mage among you?” Gelaia’s knuckles were pale as she gripped the spinel-set handle of her fan.
“Me.”
“I am.”
“I have that honour.” Casuel’s stiff words fell into stunned silence as Gelaia, Den Ferrand and Den Brennain all tried to edge together, finding themselves unexpectedly surrounded by wizards.
“Three of you.” Gelaia fanned herself rapidly. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“May I make known Velindre Ychane, Allin Mere and Casuel D’Evoir.” Temar bowed to all in turn.
“My duty to you all.” Retreating behind formality seemed to reassure Gelaia a little.
“Our thanks to you, my lady.” Velindre’s smile combined gratitude with considerable charm. “You rescued us from an ugly situation.”
Temar could see both Den Ferrand and Den Brennain bursting with curiosity, but before either could frame a question Velindre stood to knock abruptly on the coach roof. “We needn’t trespass on your hospitality any further. Our lodgings aren’t far and Casuel can escort us.”
He looked as if that was the last thing he wanted to do, but as the coach drew to a smooth halt Den Ferrand and Den Brennain both moved to let him out, smiles politely expectant. Casuel rose to his feet with ill grace, nearly falling over the footman hastily opening the door and letting down the step.
Gelaia looked out of her window. “The other coach is behind us. You two had best see to your sisters, hadn’t you?”
Den Ferrand and Den Brennain both looked as if they would have liked to stay but shared a rueful shrug and followed Velindre out of the coach.
“Call on me later.” Temar caught at Allin’s arm. She nodded, blushing a little as both young noblemen offered her their assistance getting out of the vehicle.
The door closed smartly and the coach resumed its journey. “Are we going back to your residence?” Temar asked.
Gelaia nodded. “I think you’d prefer to tell Esquire Camarl your version of the truth before rumour drops some tattered gossip at his feet.”
“It was hardly my fault. It just all got somewhat out of hand.” Temar disliked the note of childish complaint he heard in his words.
Gelaia was fanning herself again, gripping the handle like a weapon. “If the would-be flunkey with the filthy boots is D’Olbriot’s pet mage, who’s yours? One of the women? The dumpy one?”
Temar tried to identify the emotion threaded through her words, but beyond deciding it wasn’t jealousy he failed. “Neither. I mean, you cannot consider a mage any kind of servant.”
“Which one used magic on me?” Gelaia pulled a loose feather from her fan with a sharp tug.
Temar bit his lip. “I beg your pardon, but that was me.”
Gelaia looked startled. “No one told me you were a mage!”
“I am no wizard.” Temar shook his head. “I simply have a certain facility with minor aetheric enchantments.”
Gelaia looked down at her lap, her hands reducing the stray feather to shreds. She brushed at the fluff with a jerky hand but it clung obstinately to the silk.
Temar searched for something to say. “Do you know this Malafy Skern?”
Gelaia visibly pulled herself together. “Indeed. What of him?”
“You know these arguments persecuting D’Olbriot before the Emperor?” Temar said carefully. “The man seems somehow involved, along with Firon Den Thasnet.”
“It’s entirely possible. Skern always got all the gossip and he knows everyone’s weak points. Firon has got plenty of those, after all.” The uncertainty in Gelaia’s eyes was fading as she found herself on familiar ground.
“Whom does this Skern answer to?” Temar asked.
“The Relict Tor Bezaemar, who else,” shrugged Gelaia. “Pensioned off or not.”
Temar frowned. “But she wishes us nothing but good. She has been helping Avila, making introductions, free with her advice.”
“I’m sure she has.” Gelaia laughed without humour. “You’re the next best thing to a Sieur; she’ll be sweetness from sunrise to sunset as far as you’re concerned.”
“You think otherwise?” hazarded Temar.
“Oh she’s not inclined to cultivate we lesser sprigs of the family trees. She clips us well back if she gets a chance.” Gelaia made a visible effort to seal her lips.
“Go on,” Temar prompted.
“Swear on all that’s holy you’ll not tell?” Gelaia leaned forward, eyes hard.
“May Poldrion loose his demons on me if I break faith.” Temar swore fervently.
“Last summer, Jenty and Kreve Tor Bezaemar got quite fond. He’s the Sieur’s second son and the one being groomed as Designate. That would have been an excellent match for Jenty, no question, but the Relict has other plans for her precious grandson. So she dropped a few hints but Jenty wouldn’t take them, you know what she’s like. Well, take my word for it. Anyway, after the Relict went to her mother, accused her of trying to get Kreve to bed her and get him married that way, Jenty told the old bitch to keep to her kennel.”
Temar winced at the anger in Gelaia’s words. “Which was not wise?”
Gelaia paled and fear tightened her voice. “A few days later, Jenty’s maid was snatched off the Graceway. She was raped in some cellar and dumped in front of the residence at dusk. Now the sworn men on the gate brought her inside before anyone saw, and everyone swore silence, for the girl’s sake as much as anything. But next time Jenty met the Relict, the old dragon was full of sympathy. How could she know, when Jenty had done everything she could to make sure no word got out? Then the Relict just happened to mention, quite in passing, that such a dreadful thing might happen to any young woman if her luck ran out. Take my word for it, that dear old lady has more venom than a pit full of snakes if she’s crossed.”
Temar sat back, not knowing what to say. Would Camarl believe any of this? What did it mean for Kel Ar’Ayen? Did this bring them any closer to recovering the stolen artefacts?
The D’Olbriot Residence Gatehouse,
Summer Solstice Festival, Fourth Day, Evening
Ryshad!”
I turned to see Dalmit hailing me, Tor Kanselin’s man.
“You look like a watchdog on a short chain!” he joked, squinting into the sinking sun.
I smiled without replying. It was fair comment though; I’d been pacing up and down in front of the residence since the bell tower had struck nine chimes and a running stationer who’d tried to interest me in his quills, inks and papers had certainly been mercilessly snapped at. The sworn men were studiously avoiding my eye, and given the way I’d drilled their duty into them through the heat of the day I couldn’t blame them. Stoll was sitting inside the watch room, drawing up a roster with a fine display of attention to detail and disdain for my style of bucking up the recognised. I ignored him; it wasn’t my fault the Sieur’s orders had put his nose out of joint. I’d obeyed those orders, to the full, and now I was waiting for the ten chimes that would see me off watch. Then I’d have to decide whether or not to risk Charoleia’s invitation.
“You’ve slipped your leash, have you?” I walked to meet Dalmit beneath a tall tree. “Have you got time for a glass?”
“I’m on guard tonight.” He shook his head. “Thanks all the same, but I’ll be getting back.”
“What did you find out?” I got straight to the point. “And what do I owe you?”
“A Crown or so should cover it,” he shrugged. “Turns out Tor Bezaemar men passed on that bill of challenge to Jord and Lovis both. Different men, one of the sworn and a proven in from Bremilayne, but they were both spinning the same yarn about knowing for certain you weren’t fit, saying you’re carrying some injury from being taken for a slave last year.”