As I watched, a lackey in palace colours came up to whisper politely to the Sieur Tor Sylarre. A lifetime’s training kept the Sieur’s face impassive but he bid an immediate farewell to Den Muret and followed the lackey through a discreet door on the far side of the wide salon.
Temar came over, waving his dance card to dry the writing. “Be careful not to brush against my leg, ladies,” he said breezily. “Some clumsy girl has just spilt ink down me. I believe her badge was Tor Priminale.” Anger showed momentarily beneath his light words.
I looked at the barely visible dampness on his dark blue breeches. “Fortunate that the Sieur suggested that colour.”
“Quite so,” smiled Temar thinly. “Sadly, the Demoiselle’s pretty orange feathers are now an unappealing brown. What might that signify in this complicated code these girls have concocted?”
I grinned at him. “I hate to think.”
“Where does that lead?” Temar nodded towards the door Tor Sylarre had disappeared through.
“It goes round to the throne room,” I replied.
“Esquire Camarl and the Sieur were summoned as soon as they arrived.” Temar and I exchanged a speculative look.
“When’s this dance going to begin?” Casuel demanded crossly. “It’s unbearably hot.” He fidgeted with the fronts of his heavy robe.
“Just be grateful this isn’t an evening dance,” I told him. “Add the heat of candles and we’d be melting faster than the beeswax.”
The salon ran the full width of the palace but even with upper windows open to breezes too high to disturb the ladies’ elegant hair, the temperature was rising fast.
“We could work a little judicious magic, Cas,” Velindre remarked. “I can start some air moving, and drawing the heat away would be a good exercise for Allin’s fire affinity.”
“We can’t use magic here.” Casuel was horrified. “Not without the Emperor’s permission.”
“We could ask him. Where is he?” At that moment, the brass-ornamented doors into the ballroom swung open and people spilled gratefully into the cooler space. Velindre looked into the ballroom as the crush in the anteroom cleared. “Isn’t your Emperor supposed to be receiving people?”
“The Sieur Tor Arrial’s just been sent for.” Temar was still looking at the single doorway where a lackey now stood unobtrusive guard.
That prompted me to look for Avila and I soon saw her with the Maitresse Tor Arrial. The Maitresse’s brother, Esquire Den Harkeil, was writing on Avila’s dance card with a smile that was positively flirtatious.
“I am glad to see someone is enjoying the day,” remarked Temar rather tightly as he followed my gaze.
“I don’t think Esquire Camarl is.” I nudged Temar as Camarl appeared through the side door, face impassive as he hurried to his uncles. The friendly smile on Ustian’s face faded as we watched, and Leishal positively glowered. Fresil snapped his fingers abruptly to summon Myred, starting a buzz of speculation among more than the Tor Kanselin ladies so abruptly deserted.
Temar looked to me for answers but I hadn’t any to give him. Then a stir in the ballroom turned every head but it was only footmen with trays crowded with glasses.
“I hope incautious drinking does not loosen too many inhibitions.” Temar beckoned with an authoritative hand.
I took a glass of deep golden wine. “I’ve never heard of one of these dances turning into a free-for-all, but I suppose there’s always a first time.”
“You don’t seriously think there’ll be violence?” Casuel asked nervously.
“He was joking, Cas,” Velindre told him scornfully.
Looking round the gathering, feeling the increasingly fervid undercurrents, I wasn’t so sure.
A flurry of carriages outside caused another distraction. I welcomed it until I saw the late arrivals were a solid phalanx of Tor Bezaemar. The Sieur entered with his aunt the Relict on his arm, each son and nephew behind escorting dutiful daughters of the House. Every cadet line was represented, wearing the Tor Bezaemar martlet worked into pendants, rings and brooches, combined with the badge of every line subsumed into the Name over the generations. After pausing on the threshold until Dirindal was satisfied with the impact of their entrance, the family scattered like a flock of birds, alighting on every group and conversation, prompting smiles and welcomes, some less convincing than others. Dirindal relinquished her nephew to his wife and took her grandson Kreve’s arm for a slow circuit of the wide salon. I saw a Tor Tadriol lackey heading immediately for the Sieur.
“This could be interesting.” Temar’s discreet nod directed me to Dirindal, who’d drawn level with Lady Channis. Messire’s lady was deep in laughing conversation with the Maitresse Tor Kanselin and neither drew so much as a breath as they turned dismissive shoulders on the Relict. Gathering the covey of assorted Demoiselles fluttering nervously around with brisk gestures with their fans, the two ladies walked away, never once making so much as eye contact with Dirindal. The Relict was left standing, a moment of unmistakable fury on her face before she raised a sweep of mossy feathers to conceal imperfectly an expression of wounded amiability. The Esquire managed no such masquerade, plainly outraged.
“Saedrin save us, Ryshad, you’ve certainly brought me to a fascinating occasion.” Charoleia’s voice at my elbow nearly made me spill my wine. “Good day to you, Temar.”
“My Lady Alaric.” He bowed to her, eyes sparkling and won a demure half-smile in return.
I did hope he wasn’t going to make a fool of himself in public, but then again that might distract the assembled nobility. All those families with ties of blood and loyalty to D’Olbriot were taking their cue to ignore Tor Bezaemar, some with more grace than others. Indignation was swelling among Den Muret, Den Rannion, Tor Priminale, leaving minor Houses exposed as the room divided into undeclared battle lines. Den Hefeken was looking to Den Ferrand for support while Den Gennael and Den Risiper drew into a defensive circle with Den Brennain.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Casuel’s voice seesawed between rebuke for Temar and fawning in Charoleia’s direction.
“My apologies. May I make known Lady Alaric of Thornlisse. This is Casuel Devoir, Velindre Ychane and Allin Mere. All mages of Hadrumal.” The laughter just beneath Temar’s words set Casuel looking suspiciously for some hidden slight.
“You know Ryshad?” Velindre was measuring Charoleia with frank curiosity.
Charoleia returned the candid appraisal. “We have acquaintance in common.” Her words were coloured with sufficient Lescari accents to lend a hint of foreign glamour, just as her pale lilac gown had a subtly northern cut. The gentian lace overlaying the silk brought out the colour of her eyes as well as emphasising the whiteness of her skin. A single silver chain carrying an amethyst and pearl pendant circled her elegant neck and more pearls studded a silver crescent lifting hair dressed high in an unmistakably Lescari style.
Velindre swung the fan chained at her waist. “There’ll be plenty here keen to make your acquaintance.” She sounded amused.
“That’s what such functions are for,” Charoleia replied sweetly.
We were certainly attracting a fair degree of notice. An unknown beauty, three wizards and a chosen man who’d rather be outside holding the horses were certainly a welcome neutral topic for speculation in the tense atmosphere. I wondered how long we’d serve as a diversion, seeing Firon Den Thasnet draining yet another glass of wine, angry colour high on his cheekbones.
“Open hostilities here will suit no one’s purpose,” Charoleia said softly. She was looking at two Tor Sylarre youths who were casting provocative sneers at a trio of Den Murivance Esquires, stiff-necked in their first appearance at such an exalted gathering.