“I am sorry but I do not understand,” said Avila testily.
“Raising a Cohort was an uncommon event in your day, wasn’t it? Tenants were called up to serve for some specific emergency?” They both nodded slowly. “Well, during the Chaos the nobility needed standing troops to defend their people and their property. That’s when the first men were sworn, as soldiery to the Houses. By the end of the Kanselin era the formal structure we use today had developed. Recognised men are the bottom rung; they wear the livery of the House and if they show themselves trustworthy the Sieur offers them his oath and they swear to him in turn. Sworn men wear the amulet to symbolise those oaths. For those who make a mark, there’s promotion to chosen man, and then proven are at the top of the ladder, those few most highly regarded by the Sieur and his Designate.”
“And this business of challenge?” Avila gestured at the paper I held.
I looked at it. “There’s not so much need for warriors these days, but sworn men serve as bodyguards when nobility travel. Each House takes its turn supplying the Cohort keeping Toremal’s peace in the Emperor’s name, season by season and festival by festival, so we all have to be useful in a fight. Only a handful of Houses still maintain sword schools.” I ticked off the names on my fingers. “D’Olbriot, Tor Kanselin, Den Haurient, Tor Bezaemar and D’Istrac, but they all take men from the other Houses and train them up.
“When a recognised man comes to take his oath, he must prove he’s a competent fighter, so he issues a challenge with letters like this posted on all the sword school doors and sent to every House’s Sergeant-at-Arms. He has to fight everyone who turns up—any sworn man that is, not just ruffians off the streets—or he forfeits the honour of being offered an oath.”
“A test of endurance as well of skill.” Temar was looking interested. “You are also supposed to do this?”
“A sworn man elevated to chosen or a chosen man raised to proven always used to issue a challenge. Those already holding the rank would test his worth for promotion.” I rubbed a hand over my chin. “But it’s seldom done these days, only if the sword school wants to put on an extra display at the end of the recognition bouts or to honour a noted swordsman.” I shook my head. “And in any case, I didn’t issue the challenge. But now it’s posted I’m honour bound to answer anyone who turns up to meet it.”
“What is the person responsible hoping to achieve?” Avila wondered.
“Beyond killing Ryshad, if they get the chance,” commented Temar with a faint grin.
I smiled humourlessly back at him. “They won’t get that chance, but humiliating me out on the sand would be a major embarrassment for D’Olbriot.” Just as injuring Temar had humiliated the Name.
“If this challenge is nothing to do with you, why take the risk?” objected Avila.
“It is a question of honour,” Temar retorted swiftly.
I was glad he’d said that. “I’ll go down to the sword school this morning, shed a little sweat getting my eye in. It’s been a season or more since I did any serious training. I can ask a few questions while I’m there.”
“I had best take up the work you were doing yesterday.” Temar threw aside the coverlet, very nearly upsetting his breakfast tray.
I looked at Avila and saw my own doubts reflected in the Demoiselle’s eyes. “You really should stay within the walls today. Until we know more, we can’t risk you.”
“You need at least a day’s more rest, my lad,” Avila told him with a quelling look. “If someone truly wishes you dead, they will not send a man to face you with an honourable blade but with a dagger to hide in the shadows again. What am I to tell Guinalle if all I return to her is your ashes in an urn?”
I looked at my boots. That was a low blow from Avila, playing on the lad’s hopeless devotion for Guinalle. I happened to know she’d been keeping company with Usara, pupil and friend of the Archmage. His scholarship and intellect were far more to her tastes than Temar’s exuberance these days. Which reminded me—I still had to ask Casuel to use his wizardry to bespeak Usara to find out what Livak was up to. I couldn’t shake the suspicion that those brothers she was so fond of might lead her astray again.
“What am I supposed to do then?” Temar demanded crossly.
I hastily concentrated on the matter in hand. “There must be useful records in the library here. Not as many as at the archive, but the Sieur’s personal clerk will be free to help you. Messire will be at the Imperial Palace all day.”
Temar was still looking mutinous.
“At least you can get dressed,” I told him with a grin.
“I am invited to gossip over tisanes with Lady Channis and Dirindal Tor Bezaemar this morning,” announced Avila, a determined glint in her eye. “We can compare what we learn at lunch.”
Temar subsided on to his pillows. “I suppose so.”
“Please excuse me.” I bowed out of the room and caught up with a pageboy delivering carafes of spring water to the bedrooms along the corridor. “Do you know if Esquire Camarl has risen yet?”
The child shook his head. “He’s still in his bed, master, not even sent down for hot water or a tisane.”
Which meant Camarl’s fiercely devoted valet wouldn’t let anyone disturb him. I wasn’t surprised; when I’d reported my lack of progress to Camarl last night it had been well past midnight and the Esquire had still been working in the library, surrounded by parchments and ledgers. Better to go and see if anyone at the sword school could shed any light on this fake challenge, I decided. Then I could report to Camarl with more than half a tale.
I headed for the gatehouse, where I made sure Stolley knew not to let Temar go out without firstly getting Camarl’s express permission and secondly surrounding the lad with a ring of swords. A heavy wagon bearing the D’Olbriot chevron on its sides was lumbering past as I walked out on to the highway and I swung myself up on the back, nodding to the lugubrious carter.
“Chosen man, now is it?” He gave my armring a perfunctory glance and spat into the road. “You should know better than come borrowing a ride from me.”
“Where’s the harm, this once?” I protested with a grin. “Everyone does it, surely?”
“Everyone sworn, maybe.” He turned to his team of sturdy mules with a dour chirrup.
I swung my legs idly as the cart ambled round the long arc of the highway little faster than walking pace, but I was content to save my energies for the exertions a morning at the D’Olbriot sword school promised. The mules needed no prompting to take an eventual turn towards the sprawl of warehouses, chandleries and miscellaneous yards that sell everything and anything brought in from the towns and estates of the Empire or ferried from overseas in the capacious galleys that ply their way along the coasts from Ensaimin and beyond. As the carter began a series of stops to fill his wagon with sacks and barrels to supply D’Olbriot’s festivities I got off and waved my thanks.
It wasn’t far to the sword school, a rough and ready cluster of buildings inside a paling fence. It’s an old joke that our Sieur’s sacks of grain are housed in more luxury than the men who’ll defend his barns. But these austere barracks are where recognised men have their mettle and commitment tested; newer accommodations up at the residence reward those sworn to the Name with more comfortable lodging. I walked inside the weathered and gaping fence, a boundary more for show than defence. If anyone was foolish enough to think there was anything here worth stealing, he’d soon find fifty swords on either hand ready to explain his mistake.