I felt a pang at Mistal’s dismissive reference to Livak. I’d expected our older brothers Hansey and Ridner to take against her, but I’d hoped Mist would like her. I looked at him. “You say word of this will be getting out?”
“That D’Olbriot’s going to be hip deep in horseshit tomorrow? You know what this town is like, Rysh.” Mistal shrugged. “Some clerk, some advocate’s runner will reckon that’s too ripe a morsel to keep to himself.”
“Dast’s teeth,” I cursed. “I owe you for this, Mist, and so does the Sieur. Will I see you round the courts tomorrow?”
He hesitated. “I can be seen with my brother but only if you’re alone. Whoever’s behind this won’t waste a breath before accusing me of bad faith if I’m seen talking to anyone representing D’Olbriot without good reason.”
I nodded. “Then you can walk back to safer streets with me. I can’t leave you here in your nice clean robes for any passing footpad to club.”
“Just remember who’s the oldest here,” Mistal warned me.
“Just remember what Mother said the last time she found a cure for the scald in with your dirty linen. I’m not leaving you near all these brothels.”
We bickered amiably enough all the way back to the lower end of the Graceway, where Mistal turned off to head back to the warren of crumbling stone and worm-ridden wood that makes up the Imperial Courts of Law. I hailed a hireling gig and told the driver to get me back to D’Olbriot’s residence as fast as his whip could manage.
The Library, D’Olbriot Residence,
Summer Solstice Festival, Second Day, Noon
And we may find something of interest here, Esquire.” An eager young man deposited yet another stack of dusty parchments in front of Temar.
“Thank you, Master Kuse.” Temar managed to sound grateful.
“Call me Dolsan,” said the saturnine youth as he leafed intently through the pile.
“Then you must call me Temar,” he said with feeling. “Esquire D’Alsennin is over formal.”
“The Sieur likes formality.” The clerk brushed a cobweb from the front of his jerkin. “Come to that, shouldn’t you be the Sieur D’Alsennin by now?”
Temar sat back in his round-armed chair. “Should I?”
Dolsan continued sorting documents. “You’re the elder male of the Name, so you’re entitled to propose yourself in the absence of any others.”
Temar managed a shaky laugh. “As far as I’m concerned my grandsire will always be the Sieur.”
“But what about everyone else’s concerns?” Dolsan asked, head on one side.
“What has it to do with everyone else?” demanded Temar.
Dolsan raised hands to deflect the irritation in Temar’s words. “It’s such an unusual occurrence, a Name reduced to one man. We’ve been trying to find precedent in the archives.”
“We?” Temar queried.
“The Sieur and myself,” Dolsan explained. “And clerks from other Houses have commented in passing. We meet at the law courts, at archives and so on, sometimes share a few bottles of wine after a long day.”
Conversation over those cups must be mind-numbingly boring, thought Temar. But then again, perhaps not. “Have you friends in other Houses who might help us trace these people on my list?”
“Almost certainly,” Dolsan nodded. “But it’ll be easier if we can pinpoint the era and Name we’re interested in.”
“Of course.” Temar bent over the creased and dingy parchment he’d been studying and Dolsan turned over tattered leaves he’d fetched from a dusty chest. Their soft fall was the only sound to disturb the graceful room. The walls were shelved from floor to ceiling, with only lavishly embroidered curtains hung at long windows to soften the all-encompassing severity of the thick leather tomes. A carpet richly patterned in gold and green carried a wide table polished to a glorious sheen surrounded by stylish chairs with cushions in D’Olbriot colours and several lamp stands stood ready to shed illumination if needed. A black marble fireplace with a gold-framed mirror over the mantel claimed the only expanse of wall not given over to books, fresh summer flowers bright instead of flames in the grate. The only incongruous note in all this sophistication was the stack of dark, dusty record chests inconveniencing anyone wanting to move around.
“We may have something here,” Temar said after a while. “This inventory of the Maitresse Odalie’s jewels mentions a silver brooch set with malachite. It came to her as part of an inheritance from a Tor Priminale aunt who died childless. We are missing a brooch like that and the woman it belonged to was from a family owing duty to Den Fellaemion.”
“Who were subsumed into Tor Priminale during the Chaos,” agreed Dolsan. “The fact you can read archaic script makes this so much easier, you know.” He reached for a vast sheet of parchment covered in fine writing. “Here we are, marriages under Kanselin the Droll. Odalie had four daughters, two of whom married within the Name, one married into D’Istrac, and the youngest married into Den Breval.”
Temar glanced up. “Do you know anyone serving either Name?”
Dolsan leaned on his elbows, cupping his face in his hands.
“I know a couple of clerks working for D’Istrac, but Den Breval’s a northern House; their archive’s in Ast. I know Den Breval had to defend in an argument over grazing rights a few years back. They’d have hired Toremal help for that and I might find someone who knows something, at least where any copies of Den Breval records might be lodged. Remote Names often leave things in the Toremal archives of allied Houses.”
“Ryshad was right when he said you were the man for this job.” Temar shook his head. Would he ever get all these Names and their relations straight? It was doubtless all very well if you imbibed such things with mother’s milk but this flood of information all at once threatened to choke him. “But I admit I expected a sober old man with a long grey beard.”
Dolsan smiled as he returned to his ancient records. “That sounds like my grandsire.”
“He was a clerk? You followed his trade?” Temar nodded; of course that would be the way of it.
Dolsan looked up. “Oh, no, he just had the beard. He was a cobbler, and my father after him. But we’re D’Olbriot tenants and that means the chance of better schooling than most. My teachers said I had a talent for words and recommended me to the Sieur’s Archivist.”
“Do you enjoy your work?” asked Temar curiously.
“Very much,” laughed Dolsan. “And anything’s better than spending the days pricking my thumbs with a leather needle.”
“You must meet the scholars we have in Kel Ar’Ayen.” They shared this bizarre, intense determination to tease the truth of history from faded records and partial accounts, Temar recalled.
“Perhaps, one day,” Dolsan said politely.
A tap on the door made them both turn their heads. “Enter,” called Dolsan when it was clear Temar wasn’t about to respond.
“Good day to you, Esquire, Master Clerk.” Allin slid into the room, closing the door behind her. “ I was looking for Demoiselle Tor Arrial?”
“Avila?” Temar shook his head. “She has gone out with Lady Channis.”
“Oh.” Allin looked uncertain. “Oh dear.”
“Why did you want her?” Temar seized this welcome distraction from the documents stacked before him.
“It wasn’t anything important,” said Allin in unconvincing tones. “Don’t let me disturb you.”
The gatehouse struck the five chimes of noon and Dolsan let slip a sigh of relief. “My lady, I think we’ve earned a break, so you’re not interrupting us.” He got to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, Esquire, I’ll go and eat. How soon would you like me back here?”
“Take your time, have a decent meal and some fresh air.” Temar turned to Allin. “May I escort you to the upper hall?”
“Oh, no, thank you but it’s not really—” stammered Allin.
Temar looked at her pink cheeks. “Dolse, would you do us a small service?”