Judging the ebbing enthusiasm of the crowd to a nicety, Messire stepped down and turned to offer his hand to Avila. Her appearance incited the ebullient mob to fresh cheering and I heard a new note of speculation as the Sieur offered her his arm. I got out of the coach completely ignored by everyone.
“Where do we go?” Avila’s smile was gracious but I saw nervousness darkening her eyes.
“In a moment,” said the Sieur, bending towards her with a smile that won renewed interest from the avid faces closest. “These people have come to offer their duty, after all.”
“Smile, Temar.” Camarl turned to give people on the far side a look at his finery. “If you’re looking cheerful, satire artists and gossipmongers can’t make up anything too dreadful about you.”
“Apart from drawing me grinning like a half-wit,” Messire laughed. “Do you remember that dreadful picture doing the rounds last summer, Camarl?”
He laid a proprietorial hand on Avila’s fingers as she held his arm close and walked slowly beneath the great arch. Camarl strolled behind with a relaxed air that Temar made a creditable attempt at matching. I followed with a few curious eyes sliding my way before returning to the far more interesting spectacle of highest nobility almost close enough to touch.
As we came out into the open sunlight of the courtyard a rattle of hooves and harness behind us prompted shouts of welcome for some new arrival. When Temar would have looked to see who it was, Camarl dissuaded him with the faintest shake of his head. “Ryshad, who’s behind us?”
A half-turn showed me the crest emblazoned on the carriage door. “Den Murivance.”
Knots of clerks in lawyerly grey thronged the shadows of the colonnade ringing the courtyard, looking intently as the Sieur D’Olbriot escorted Demoiselle Tor Arrial. Two put their heads close for a moment and then one went hurrying off, the long sleeves of his robe flapping. I wondered if Messire really had an interest in Avila or if this was simply another move on the game board. Whichever, I’d bet my oath fee some hapless advocate would be guttering the candles writing up the implications of a D’Olbriot match with Tor Arrial.
Temar slowed, looking around at the five storeys of the palace, now all given over to archives and records and quarters for advocates rich enough to pay for a foothold in their battleground, spare rooms in garret and cellar divided and divided again for rank and file. “I did not recognise that façade, but this is much as it was.”
I looked at the pitted and stained columns, the cracked flagstones and the mismatched shutters of the windows. Trying to imagine it as pristine as Temar’s memory of it was disconcertingly easy. “It’s been the law courts since the days of Inshol the Curt.”
“Shall we proceed, Messire?” Camarl raised snapping fingers and an advocate hurried to his side.
“Indeed.” The Sieur followed the lawyer through the colonnade to a great double door opening on to an anteroom where lawyers milled around like a flock of banded pigeons.
“Demoiselle Tor Arrial, Esquire D’Alsennin, may I make known Advocate Burquest?” The Sieur introduced one of Toremal’s most prominent lawyers with easy familiarity. Burquest was a broad-shouldered man with a round, kindly face and a deceptively amiable air. He wore his thinning hair brushed straight back and long to his collar, a style going out of fashion when I’d been a youth. But Burquest wasn’t concerned with fashions. His whole life was arguing before the Imperial courts, and his reputation was formidable.
Temar did his best to bow despite the people pressing all round. Avila favoured Burquest with a tight smile, but I could see she was uneasy, hemmed in by unknown bodies.
The Sieur noticed as well. “Are we ready to go in?”
Burquest nodded. “This way, sirs, my lady.”
A burly warder in Den Janaquel colours was guarding the door to the court proper but drew his silver capped staff aside to let us pass. As Camarl stepped forward to hear what the advocate was saying to the Sieur, Temar fell back beside me.
“This was the Imperial audience room,” he said in an undertone, staring around the broad hall. Stone vaults high overhead were supported by intricate stonework springing like carved branches from massive faceted columns. Narrow windows of clear glass rose tall between the pillars and sparkling sunlight floated down to us. Down at our level the surroundings were not nearly so grand. The long tables and benches were sturdy and functional but no more than that. The floor had been swept, but some Nemith had probably been the last one to order it polished. There was nothing in the plain, undecorated furnishings to distract anyone from the business of the law, an Imperial decree dating back to Leoril the Wise.
“Up there?” Temar frowned as the Sieur headed for a broad gallery built around three sides of the room.
“Only advocates and their clerks appear before the Emperor.” I indicated a row of lecterns set in a line before a fretted screen.
“Where is he?” Temar looked around, puzzled.
I nodded at the screen. “He’ll be behind there.”
We took our seats in the second rank of the gallery, the Sieur and Avila in front, close to the dais so we could see everyone else in the gallery and almost all of the people below.
Camarl was on Temar’s far side and he leaned forward to include me in his remarks. “The Emperor sits screened so that no one can see his reactions, try to catch his eye, or make some move to influence or distract him.”
“But he can see us?” Temar looked thoughtfully at the black-varnished wooden lattice.
“More importantly, so can all these people. So look relaxed and unconcerned, no matter what’s said below,” Camarl advised, turning to nod and smile as the gallery filled up. There were no formal divisions, but people separated regardless in tight huddles of mutual interest.
“Den Thasnet,” I murmured, my pointing hand hidden by Avila’s shoulder. “Tor Alder.”
“Dirindal thought I might find friends in that House,” said Temar a little sadly.
The Sieur half turned in his seat. “It’s easy enough to be friends until the cow gets into the garden. They think you’re here to eat them out of House and home.” He looked at Camarl. “Note which advocate speaks on each count and we’ll set Dolsan to looking up any other suits they’ve been involved in. We might get some hint as to who’s orchestrating this.” He turned to look at the rearmost gallery and waved to someone. “I see we have a good turn out of the richer commonalty.”
The men of trade and practical skills were easily identifiable. Their clothes were as fashionably cut of cloth as rich as any noble, and plenty of silver and gold shone bright in the sunlight, but none of them wore any ornament set with gemstones. Perinal the Bold’s law might be archaic and often disregarded, but no one was going to risk challenging it in the heart of Imperial justice.
Down on the floor of the court the advocates were standing in a loose circle behind the row of lecterns. Their grey robes were distinguished by various knots of gold on each shoulder and cord in differing colours braided around the upright collars. Mistal had tried explaining their significance to me more than once, but I’d never really listened.
Temar leaned forward. “I see no insignia on anyone down there.”
“That was one of Tadriol the Staunch’s reforms.” Camarl leaned back with every appearance of ease. “No House may retain any permanent advocate. We sponsor clerks, train them up in our archives, but once they start offering argument to the court they’re their own men.”
“A justified claim of bias can get a judgement reversed,” I explained to Temar.
“Which has happened to Den Thasnet more than once,” murmured Camarl. “So it’ll be interesting to see who their mouthpiece might be over in the Land Tax court.” He smiled warmly at a pretty girl with a Den Murivance portcullis picked out in spinels on the silver handle of her white-feathered fan. “Have you been introduced to Gelaia, Temar?”