We hurried through the gardens. When I knocked on the door it was Camarl’s voice not the Messire’s that answered. “Enter.”
I took a deep breath and opened the door. “Good morning, Messire, Esquires.” I bowed low.
The Sieur was there together with all three of his brothers, sat in a close half-circle with Myred and Camarl to represent the coming generation. Painted, the faces would have looked like studies of the same man at different ages. Young Myred, dutifully silent at the back, still had the bloom of early manhood, flesh softening chin and cheekbones but waist still trim beneath his close cut coat. Camarl showed the incipient family stoutness overcoming the fitness lent by youth but the years he had over his cousin sharpened his gaze with experience gained. Next in age was Ustian, Messire’s younger brother, who still travelled seven seasons out of the eight, seeing how the House’s vast holdings were managed at first hand. He was the plumpest of the four brothers, an inoffensive, round little man with a mind like a steel trap hidden beneath leaves. Long leagues on the road showed in lines around his eyes that Camarl as yet lacked. While the Sieur was still a man in his prime, Esquire Fresil, on Messire’s left, was visibly further down the slope towards Saedrin’s door. Leishal, master of the House’s estates around Moretayne since the days of the old Sieur and seldom seen in Toremal, was not much older. But even those few years made a difference: his legs were thinned with old age, spindly beneath his paunch, his face sinking to show the bones of his skull. Where Myred’s eyes were a vibrant stormy blue, Leishal’s were faded nearly to colourless, deeply hooded beneath a wrinkled forehead. For all that, his wits were still honed sharp by three generations’ unquestioning service of his Name.
“Good day to you, Ryshad.” Avila sat across the room beside the fireplace, expression bland, ankles crossed beneath a frivolously yellow-sprigged white gown.
“Where were you?” barked Esquire Leishal.
“Retrieving what was stolen from the House, Esquire,” I said politely.
Temar took a pace to stand beside me, one hand laid on the leather bag. “We believe everything is here.”
Avila shifted in her seat with a rustle of silk but I’d have had to turn my head to look at her. I didn’t feel that would be wise; displeasure hung in the air like the promise of summer thunder.
“You didn’t have time to tell anyone where you were going?” asked Ustian.
“I chose not to, Esquire.” I faced him squarely. “The person who gave me the information asked me to keep it in confidence.”
“There are no secrets between sworn man and master,” snapped Fresil. “What do you mean by taking D’Alsennin into danger? The boy’s barely out of bandages!”
“Your pardon, but I answer neither to Ryshad nor to any D’Olbriot.” Temar’s face was stern. “I crossed the ocean to seek these stolen treasures. Life and honour are both my own to risk in that quest.”
“Maitresse Den Castevin has no high opinion of your honour,” retorted Fresil.
In the corner of my eye I saw Avila sit forward, mouth thin with anger. The Sieur nodded to her and she stayed silent but from the surprise on Fresil’s face I’d wager any coin she was giving him a very hard look.
“A great number of people tell you things in confidence, Ryshad,” Ustian said genially. “Two are waiting to see you as we speak.”
Camarl rang a little hand bell and a blank-faced footman ushered two people through the far door, my brother Mistal and Charoleia’s errand boy, Eadit, who was looking like a mouse in a room full of cats. I really did hope he wasn’t here to ask for her dance card because I couldn’t see Messire taking kindly to that.
“Fair Festival, advocate.” Camarl’s smile was broad with all the confidence of rank. “Anything you wish to say to Ryshad can be said before the Sieur and Esquires.”
Mistal bowed elegantly to the assembled nobility. “I’ve been trying to determine who is paying Master Premeller to act as a friend of the court.”
“Why bring the news to your brother and not to Esquire Camarl or the Sieur?” asked Leishal sternly.
“I did not wish to presume on their honours’ time.” Mistal bowed again.
“Just tell us what you’ve found out,” Ustian invited.
Mistal raised a hand to the front of the advocate’s gown he wasn’t wearing. “Master Premeller owes a sizeable sum to one Stelmar Hauxe, goldsmith.”
“Money-lender,” commented Leishal with disapproval.
“Quite so.” Mistal smiled without humour. “According to the advocate who shares his rooms, Premeller’s just defaulted on the interest for the second quarter running, but for some reason he hasn’t suffered the bruising that kept him in bed for most of Equinox.”
“Why does Hauxe want Premeller snapping at our heels?” Fresil barked. “We’ve never done business with the man.”
“Hauxe rents premises by the quarter from Aymer Saffan,” continued Mistal, “who leases them by the five-year from Tor Bezaemar.”
“Which proves nothing,” Leishal grunted.
“Saffan has just granted Hauxe a season’s exemption on his rent,” offered Mistal.
“You’ll never trace that back to Tor Bezaemar,” Fresil scoffed.
“Indeed.” Ustian was considering this news. “I could imagine a handful of explanations before implicating another noble House in deliberate malice.”
Training in the courts made Mistal equal to this. “Would any of those alternatives explain Premeller’s unexpected hostility to D’Olbriot? Has he ever shown any predilection for honourable disinterest?”
The Sieur raised his hand and everyone fell silent.
“Ryshad, introduce your other visitor,” Camarl prompted.
“This is Eadit.” I tried to put some reassurance in my voice. “He works for the person who helped us secure the stolen artefacts.”
“Speak, boy!” barked Leishal.
Eadit cleared his throat nervously. “I came to tell you Fenn Queal was visited yesterday morning by a valet recently dismissed by Tor Bezaemar. That valet’s been seen drinking with one Malafy Skern, a pensioner from Tor Bezaemar’s service. That’s all I know.”
Camarl spoke up at once. “I passed on Esquire D’Alsennin’s concerns to the Sieur yesterday.” His intent look forbade me to pursue the matter in Eadit’s hearing. “Advocate, Master Eadit, you have our thanks.”
Messire dismissed both with a gesture and Mistal hustled Eadit out of the room.
“More conjecture and gossip,” scowled Ustian.
“We can’t set any of this before the court,” Fresil agreed.
“You cannot in all conscience ignore this,” said Avila with rising ire. “In the Old Empire such weight of suspicion would have been enough to call out your Cohorts against Tor Bezaemar!”
“We have different fields of combat in this day and age,” Fresil said sharply. “Never fear, Demoiselle, we’ll set as much before Imperial justice as we can when the sessions resume after Festival. In the meantime we can take other steps against Tor Bezaemar, and who knows, sufficient provocation may prompt them to betray themselves.
“That would lend weight to our arguments,” agreed Leishal to general approval.
“If your Emperor declares against them in this court?” Temar folded his arms abruptly. “Will that curb their malice?”
“We’ll have won a significant battle,” said Ustian with a smile of amusement.
“Not the war?” persisted Temar.
“That will take a little longer.” But Leishal’s dour words made it clear the outcome wasn’t in question.
“That’s our concern, not yours, D’Alsennin.” The Sieur spoke for the first time. “You’re to be congratulated on recovering your artefacts.”
“I could not have done so without Ryshad,” Temar said pointedly.
“Quite so.” The Sieur’s bland face was unreadable. “And now you can prepare to celebrate your good fortune at the Emperor’s dance.” He smiled at Avila, who raised a sceptical eyebrow. “My lady Channis will run through the etiquette.” Courteous as it was, Messire’s dismissal was unmistakable.