“Lady Channis seemed certain she would,” Ryshad reminded the wizard.
“I wonder what was in that note.” Realising the mage was even more nervous than he was put perverse heart into Temar. “You look very formal.”
“Velindre suggested people will take us more seriously if I reminded them I’ve the power of Hadrumal behind me,” Casuel said with a sickly smile that soon faded. “I’m sure she’ll claim the credit for this with Planir, if it works. You’ll put him right, won’t you?”
Temar stifled a curt response. “What now, Ryshad?”
“We have to be with the Emperor when we get Allin’s message,” the chosen man frowned. “It won’t take the Relict long to get to the feather merchant, and we can’t risk not hearing all the conversation.”
Temar saw the others were both looking expectantly at him. “What do I say to the guards?”
“You’re acting as Sieur of a House,” Casuel said acerbically. “You need explain yourself to no one, least of all a gate ward.”
Temar drew a deep breath and walked towards the iron gates. Ryshad’s solid footfalls behind him were some reassurance, though Casuel’s hesitant steps made him worry the mage was going to tread on his heels at any moment.
“Fair Festival.” Ryshad took a pace to the side to address the sentry. “Make your obeisance to Temar D’Alsennin.”
“Fair Festival, Esquire, my duty to you.” The man bowed briefly, eyes never leaving Temar’s face.
“Fair Festival.” Temar smiled graciously. “I wish to see the Emperor.”
“Are you expected?” asked the guard politely.
“As senior surviving member of my House, I claim the rights of a Sieur,” Temar said just before Ryshad’s prompting cough. “That includes immediate access to the Imperial presence.”
The guard bowed again. “Indeed.” Face impassive, he beckoned a sworn man waiting alert in the doorway of the gatehouse. “Escort the D’Alsennin to the Steward.” He nodded at Ryshad and Casuel. “Do you vouch for your companions?”
“Naturally.” Temar realised the guard was still looking at him expectantly. “Chosen man Ryshad Tathel, of D’Olbriot, and Casuel Devoir, wizard of Hadrumal.”
The man’s expression did not flicker. “They may enter on your surety.”
Temar turned to see Ryshad unbuckling his sword-belt and moved a hand towards his own before Ryshad’s minatory frown stopped him.
“Are you armed, Master Mage?” The guard looked warily at Casuel.
The wizard smiled with a superior air. “Only with my skills.”
The guard looked dubious and glanced at Temar. “Do I have your oath you’ll keep him in check?”
“Poldrion be my witness.” Temar spoke loudly to cover some indignant noise from Casuel. He turned his head briefly to see the wizard rubbing a sore arm while Ryshad looked blandly ahead.
“This way, if you please.” The second guard walked ahead of them through the blazing colours of the gardens. Temar noticed inconsequentially that the paths were not carpeted with gravel but with crushed seashells and wondered why.
The shade cast by the north front of the palace offered welcome relief from the sun. It was a wide building rather than a tall one, only two stories above a cellar floor whose half-windows were shaded by deep arches at ground level. Steps down to the basement in the centre of the frontage were framed by a double stair curving up from the path to meet before double doors standing open. A spacious portico shaded steps and entrance, rising on faceted pillars to meet the roofline. Broad windows were set at regular intervals on either side, muslin blinds half drawn.
“When was this built?” Temar asked without thinking.
The man looked at him uncertainly. “When Den Tadriol ascended to the throne.”
Once through the open door Temar found they were in a square room rising the full height of the building. Their escort was speaking to a man sitting behind a table set precisely in the centre of the grey and white chequer of the marble floor.
“D’Alsennin to see the Emperor, as of Sieur’s right.” The guard leaned closer but the echoing room amplified his words. “He’s got a wizard with him.”
Temar couldn’t resist a glance at Casuel, who was visibly preening himself. Ryshad was as stony-faced as the statues flanking the iron-balustered stair rising to the upper floor.
The Steward dismissed the man at arms and rose from his seat. “Fair Festival to you, D’Alsennin.”
“Fair Festival.” Temar fixed the man with his best imitation of his grandsire’s piercing gaze. “I wish to see the Emperor.”
The Steward was a tall man, sparse grey hair clipped short and face mild above the Tadriol badge at his collar. He took a moment to answer. “It’s hardly convenient.”
Temar wondered if that was a refusal or merely a hint he’d be well advised to take. Either way, he ignored it. “I appreciate the Emperor must be very busy, but I have to see him.”
“His highness will be at leisure this evening,” the Steward offered.
“I cannot wait,” Temar said firmly.
“He is preparing for the dance.” They could waste half the morning in these futile exchanges, Temar realised. He wondered how to shake the man out of his courteous obstruction. Then he realised the man was wearing a golden bull’s head with enamelled horns and eyes set with chips of black opal.
“I must have approval for an insignia, before noon, that I may wear it at the dance.” Temar looked the Steward in the eye and hoped it wasn’t too obvious he’d just thought of the excuse.
The Steward took a pace back and bowed. “If you’ll await the Emperor’s convenience.” He walked briskly up the broad staircase without a backward glance.
“We wait here.” Ryshad indicated the maroon velvet chairs lining the walls.
Temar sat and looked at the portraits hung in regular lines framed by plaster moulding. “So which one’s your Tadriol?”
Ryshad nodded to a youthful figure holding a horse in front of the portico they’d just come through. “Tadriol the Provident.”
“Fifth of his line, as you recall.” Casuel couldn’t resist reminding Temar. “Tadriol the Thrifty built this palace.”
“Does that happen every time there is a change of Name?” Temar looked at the mage. No wonder these Houses were all so obsessed with coin, if highest honour came at such a heavy price.
“It’s only since Inshol the Curt that the Old Palace was turned over to the law courts,” Ryshad remarked. “Tor Bezaemar built themselves a new palace but they weren’t about to hand it over to Den Tadriol when they lost the throne.”
Casuel leaned forward in his chair. “Tadriol the Vigilant wanted to build somewhere open to the populace, noble and common. One of the reasons Tor Bezaemar were deposed was their inclination to hold themselves aloof.” The wizard warmed to his theme. “The Relict’s late husband was caught up in quite a scandal in his youth. The House raised their rents at every Festival one year, not just at Winter Solstice, so when Solstice came round again a mob of their tenants turned up and pelted anyone bearing the Name with copper coin any time they showed their face. They claimed to be paying their dues, but—”
Temar turned to Ryshad. “Is this place always so empty?” The silence was eerily disconcerting after the constant mass of people swirling through the D’Olbriot residence.
Ryshad shook his head. “You wouldn’t get a seat here after mid-morning outside Festival, and that Steward would have twenty men backing him up. But today everyone’s getting ready for the dance.”
“The Emperor can hardly be polishing the silverware. Why isn’t he free to see us?” demanded Casuel petulantly.
Temar turned his attention to statues set on plain white plinths between the paintings. Saedrin held his keys, Raeponin his balance, but a scaly snake curled round Poldrion’s feet, head raised to the god’s caressing hand. The beast’s mouth was open to reveal disconcertingly sharp teeth. Temar wondered if that had any significance beyond idle decoration. He was ignorant of so much in this perplexing age.