He stared at the opposite wall, at the massed Sieurs of the House of Tadriol. All he could see in those varnished eyes was accusation. He was claiming to be their equal? Just what did he think he was Sieur of? Did he imagine he’d ever win respect, even if he did claw back some remnant of D’Alsennin lands? What difference would a few holm oak leaves make?
Temar gritted his teeth. They could judge him if they chose, but he would answer to his own conscience, his own values. D’Alsennin need not answer to any of these latterday Names. Even if this attempt to pull D’Olbriot’s chestnuts out of the fire failed, he could return to Kel Ar’Ayen with his head held high. He’d recovered nigh on all the lost artefacts, hadn’t he? He’d used Artifice in ways that would never have occurred to Guinalle, so she’d better not try putting him down as she was so apt to. A more beautiful, more intelligent woman than her hadn’t scorned to take him to her bed and he’d acquitted himself creditably there as well.
“Are you ready?” Allin’s distant voice startled Temar out of his reverie. He looked up to see a shimmering circle of air rippling in front of Casuel, Allin’s homely face distorted as if through thick glass.
“We’re still waiting for the Steward to take us to Tadriol,” said Casuel tartly.
“But the Relict’s carriage has just pulled up.” Allin’s anguish was clear if her image wasn’t.
“We have to find the Emperor ourselves — now.” Temar was first to his feet, Ryshad a scant breath behind him.
“The backstairs are this way,” Ryshad pointed.
Casuel was winding the long sleeves of his robe round his hands in agonies. “He’ll call down the guard, we’ll end up in chains—”
“You said I have the right to immediate audience.” Temar pulled Casuel to his feet. “My grandsire says rights are like horses — useless unless you exercise them.”
“This way.” Ryshad opened a discreet door hidden beneath the grand stair. Temar dragged Casuel along by his stiff sleeve. They ran through empty marble corridors, down a long hall, up a flight of stairs.
A liveried servant on a stool beside a door looked at them in surprise.
“You’re wanted below,” said Ryshad before the man could speak. “The Sieur D’Alsennin has private business with the Emperor.”
Temar opened the door himself with as much authority as he could convey and strode into a small anteroom. Ryshad closed the door behind the lackey and wedged a chair back under the handle. “In there.”
Temar clenched his fists before opening the plain single door. He found it a pleasant airy room hung with small paintings. A single band of floral moulding ran round the top of the walls but the room was otherwise plain white plaster, carpeted with thick bronze rugs. Walnut chairs softened with cushions in autumn hues were ranged to one side of a broad marquetry table, where a slightly built young man had been looking into a hand glass as he combed his hair into crisp waves, a jar of pomade to hand.
“What is this?” The habit of authority belied his simple shirt and plain brown broadcloth breeches.
“Esquire D’Alsennin, claiming Sieur’s right to audience.” Temar bowed stiffly.
“Of course, I thought you looked familiar. But this is neither the time nor the place—”
The Emperor was already reaching for a silver hand bell resting on a stack of papers.
“Cas!” Temar snapped his fingers at the agonised wizard.
Casuel looked at him blankly but as the first note rang out he flung a handful of blue fire to knock the bell from Tadriol’s hand. Documents fluttered in all directions as the bell toppled to the floor in uncanny silence.
The Emperor pushed his carved wooden chair backwards in visible consternation. “I’ll have your hide for that!”
“Forgive me,” stammered Casuel.
“Work your magic, wizard,” Temar ordered him urgently. “Find Lady Channis.” He turned to the Emperor. “We will explain ourselves presently, but I beg your indulgence.”
“It had better be a good explanation, D’Alsennin,” the Emperor retorted, wary eyes taking in every detail of his unexpected guests. “You, D’Olbriot’s man, does your Sieur know you’re here?”
“Lady Channis does, highness,” Ryshad answered promptly. “Messire is otherwise engaged.”
“Then what is so urgent—”
“I need something metal, something shiny.” Casuel looked vacantly around.
Ryshad grabbed a tray of glasses from a side table, dropping one in his haste. It shattered in a spray of crystal shards. “Here.” He set the other goblets aside and threw the salver at Casuel who caught it as it hit him in the chest.
“I’ll wait for my answers, shall I?” The Emperor’s self-possession was returning. Nevertheless he unobtrusively retrieved his hand bell and set it on his desk in mute warning. “But don’t try my patience too long.”
“A candle?” Temar snatched a virgin taper from a small pot on the mantelshelf. He caught Casuel’s arm and forced the wizard on to a chair facing the ornate table. Sweeping aside a clutter of letters, he thrust the taper at the wizard.
“Do you need a tinderbox?” asked the Emperor with faint courtesy. “I take it you’re one of the Archmage’s underlings?”
“One of his associates, his liaison with D’Olbriot,” Casuel stopped to smile ingratiatingly. “It has to be a conjured flame, your highness.”
“Then conjure it,” snapped Temar.
The mage snapped hesitant fingers, once, twice, but no scarlet magic flared to light the wick. Temar swallowed a curse and felt the blood pounding in his chest. A tentative knock sounded at the door and Ryshad moved to brace one booted foot firmly against the wood.
“You have done this often enough,” Temar encouraged the wizard in a tight voice. “Even Allin can work thus.”
The taper spat a flicker of crimson fire, the spark strengthening to a modest flame. Temar handed Casuel the shiny tray. It rattled against the table as the mage’s hand shook but a pinpoint of gold reflected steadily from the centre of the polished metal. It spread raggedly outwards like fire burning through paper, brilliant edges leaving a smoky void behind. Scars sparked across the emptiness like lightning splintering a stormy sky.
“It’s Velindre,” Casuel said crossly. “She’s manipulating the spell from her end.”
“Then work with her, as best you can,” Temar urged him.
“She’s not cooperating,” Casuel grumbled, but as he spoke voices came out of the emptiness to echo round the silent room.
“My Lady Channis, I confess I was surprised to get your note.”
The Emperor looked at Temar, surprise and curiosity joining forces to win out over the last of his indignation. “That sounds like Dirindal Tor Bezaemar.”
“Please look into the magic,” Temar begged. “Then we will explain, I swear.”
The Emperor rose slowly from his chair to move behind Casuel. “What’s going on?”
Lady Channis was speaking. “Granted gossip runs through this city like rabbits through corn but this particular rumour always seems to track back to your door.”
Temar looked into the magical reflection of distant reality. Lady Channis was sitting beside a round table covered with a plain white cloth where an array of gaudy feathers was carefully laid out for her inspection.
Dirindal Tor Bezaemar was standing by a fireplace filled with blue and purple flagflowers. “I may have mentioned it, but only to try and find out who’d be saying such things.” Her genial face creased in a plump smile. “Now I remember. That foolish Tor Sylarre girl was letting her tongue run away with her. I told her I didn’t believe a word of it.”
Channis picked up a long grey plume banded with blue. “That’s curious, because Jinty Tor Sauzet is quite certain that you told her.”
“Talagrin himself couldn’t tame Jinty’s tongue.” The Relict’s face turned a little weary. “You know she was languishing after Kreve last year? Since he turned her down she’s done all she can to make trouble for our House.”