“We were surprised to see you here,” one girl was saying sweetly.
“But you could hardly expect to go unnoticed in that dress,” said another, not bothering to honey her malice.
“I don’t know how these things are done in Lescar,” began another, and from the contempt in her voice she clearly had no wish to know. “But here it’s accepted that wizards leave the concerns of the Names well alone.”
“My father only hopes D’Olbriot is making that clear to you people,” added the one who’d criticised Allin’s dress.
“No House would dream of meddling with Hadrumal’s affairs,” chipped in the first.
“My lady mage!” Temar put all the pleasure he could into his greeting. “How delightful to see you again.”
He bowed low and Allin managed an abrupt curtsey. “Esquire D’Alsennin.” Her voice was steadier than he had expected and he realised it was anger rather than upset colouring her round face.
“Someone else who doesn’t know when he’s not wanted,” murmured one girl behind a canary yellow fan. A sudden lull in conversation all around left her words clearly audible.
Temar inclined his head at her. “You would be Demoiselle Den Thasnet?” A silver and enamel trefoil blossomed at her freckled neckline, twin to one the odious Firon had worn. “I recognise your House’s style.”
“You should be careful with that fan, Demoiselle,” Allin remarked. “You don’t want to get that dye on your gown.”
Satisfied to see the young women all disconcerted, even if he didn’t know why, Temar decided to leave before someone launched some jibe he’d no defence against. “Allin, shall we take some air?”
“Thank you, Esquire. It’s more than a little stale in here.” Allin took his arm and Temar escorted her out on to the nearest terrace. It turned out to be the western-facing one so there was little shade but the sun had spent the worst of its heat.
Allin fanned herself with one hand. “I wish I didn’t blush so much,” she said crossly.
Temar wasn’t quite sure what to say. “Do not let them upset you.”
“I don’t,” snapped Allin.
Temar looked around the terrace. “What did you mean about that girl’s fan?” he asked after an awkward pause.
Allin bit her lower lip. “You know how Demoiselles fuss over getting the best feathers, making up their fans with hidden messages in the colours?”
Temar didn’t but he nodded anyway.
“Well, no one would dream of admitting they dyed old feathers to get the colours they needed rather than buying them new from the most expensive merchants,” Allin explained with contempt.
He really must find out if Kel Ar’Ayen had any birds with suitably lucrative tails, Temar decided. “I see. Anyway, what brings you here today?”
“I’m here with Velindre,” Allin answered in a more moderate tone. “She’s over there.”
Following Allin’s gesture, Temar saw the willowy wizard elegant in unadorned azure silk and deep in conversation with Avila and the Relict Tor Bezaemar. “What is she doing here?”
He was thinking aloud rather than asking, but Allin answered him anyway. “We’re wondering what the other Houses think of D’Olbriot’s links with the Archmage.” She sighed. “I imagine you heard.”
“They were just a gaggle of silly girls.” Temar shrugged.
Allin shook her head. “They’re parroting the prejudices they hear at their own firesides, and if they’re any guide the Sieur’s association with Hadrumal does him no credit at present.”
“What is Hadrumal like?” Temar’s curiosity got the better of him.
“Rather inclined to see itself as the centre of the world and look down on everyone else,” said Allin bitingly. “A bit like here.”
Temar didn’t know how to answer that so squinted uncertainly at some bird perched on a balustrade confining a distant ond. Music, laughter and vivacious conversation spilled out on to the terrace from the animated gathering within and Temar felt very lonely.
“I’m probably not being fair,” said Allin after a while. “I’m tired of new places and new people and being so far away from my home and my family.”
Temar glanced back at her. “You and me both.”
Allin smiled briefly. “And there’s no going back for either of us. Magebirth separates me from mine as surely as the generations have cut you off from your roots.”
Silence fell heavily as a lively new tune struck up inside the house.
“But we just have to get on with it, don’t we?” said Allin bracingly. “What progress have you made so far?”
Temar offered her his arm. “I am developing an interest in art. Let me show you.”
The Tor Kanselin Residence,
Summer Solstice Festival, First Day,
Late Afternoon
Casuel hesitated on the threshold. “No need to introduce me.”
“Are you expected?” The door lackey looked uncertainly at him. “Sir?” he added as an afterthought.
The wizard bridled. “My name is Devoir, my title Mage. I assist the Sieur D’Olbriot on matters of vital importance to the Empire. There are people here I need to consult.” He peered into the long gallery, searching for Velindre. How had she managed to insinuate herself into such a gathering? He really was unfashionably late but he’d barely had time to dress fittingly for such a House as it was. Velindre might at least have had the courtesy to let him know where she’d be rather than just sending that offhand note saying she’d arrived in Toremal. If he hadn’t got the address of her lodging off the lad, if he hadn’t gone to call, hadn’t demanded the landlady tell him what Velindre was up to, he’d never have found out she’d be here.
The lackey was looking at him with interest. “Are you related to Amalin Devoir?”
Casuel drew himself up indignantly. “He has the honour to be related to me. May I pass?”
The door lackey moved aside with a low bow. Casuel looked at him suspiciously for a moment. Was the fellow just being a little overservile or was that some sarcasm in his gesture? Deciding it wasn’t worth pursuing, he hurried into the broad room, taking a glass of straw-coloured wine from a passing footman’s tray.
He sipped it as he walked to look out on to the terrace.
No, Velindre wasn’t there. The excellence of the vintage brought a smile to Casuel’s face. Perhaps he should take a little time for himself now Festival was here. He’d worked ceaselessly since the turn of the year, after all. A few days socialising with the educated and influential was no more than he deserved. He edged his way through the assembled nobility, careful to bow to anyone looking in his direction, waiting politely until anyone in his way stepped aside.
Temar was deep in conversation with a youth some years his senior, a handsome man in coat and breeches of rough silk as black as the martlet badge repeated on every link of a heavy chain looped around his shoulders. “Yes, it’s an heirloom piece, cursed heavy of course, but one has to dust these things off for Festival.”
“I would swear Den Bezaemar as was favoured an ouzel in my day,” Temar was saying thoughtfully.
“These things doubtless change over the generations. One little black bird is much like another, after all.” The Esquire Tor Bezaemar was sharing his attention between Temar and the rest of the room with practised ease. “I believe someone wishes to speak to you, D’Alsennin.”
“Casuel!” Temar turned to greet the mage with a flattering heartiness that was a little uncultured in present company. “Oh, forgive me, may I make known Esquire Kreve Tor Bezaemar. I have the honour to present Casuel Devoir, mage of Hadrumal.”
“We are honoured,” Kreve said politely. “I can’t imagine when any Festival reception last entertained three wizards.”