Ryshad yawned and fell silent, cradling his thickly bandaged hand across his chest. Temar watched the city go past the open window of the hireling coach. A puppet show was drawing a good crowd, rapt in the light of flickering lanterns in an alley mouth. Inns and taverns were doing a roaring trade on every side. Cheerful family groups bowled past in complacent coaches or walked along, arm in arm. Every so often some gathering blocked the flagway as people met with delighted greetings, exchanging news and embraces. The narrow houses of the tradesmen living below the old city were lit from cellar to garret, a season’s worth of candles squandered over the five days of Festival as visitors were welcomed, parties given and the births, betrothals and weddings of the previous season all celebrated in the finest style that each family could afford. As the coach wound its way up to higher ground, wealthier merchants competed with their neighbours in more decorous but ever more lavish revels.
Temar looked at the proud dwellings, struggling between sadness and defiance. He had no family, no home, not on this side of the ocean anyway, and unless Burquest, Mistal and all their clerks could come up with some winning argument, he wasn’t going to have a House or a Name to call his own either. He smiled thinly to himself at the weak joke.
What of it? He’d set his face eastwards when he’d first sailed to Kel Ar’Ayen, hadn’t he? He’d promised his grand-sire he’d raise the House of D’Alsennin to its former glories beyond the ocean, and by Saedrin he would do so still. He’d been mistaken to think all the cares of the colony were tedious and trivial, Temar realised. These so-called nobles, with their self-absorbed, trifling concerns, they were the petty ones.
Temar turned his thoughts determinedly to Kel Ar’Ayen. Rebuilding what remained of the original settlement had been their first priority, that and ensuring the remaining sleepers in the cavern were guarded in comfort and safety. Both those tasks had been pretty much complete when he’d set sail, hadn’t they? What was left of the southern settlement, he wondered, where ocean ships had escaped Elietimm attack, salvation for those few who’d escaped under Vahil’s leadership to carry the enchanted artefacts home? He’d find out, Temar decided, as soon as he got back. Making plans for an expedition occupied him as the carriage rumbled through the city and Ryshad dozed silently.
The horses slowed on the long incline leading to the D’Olbriot residence just as a new notion struck Temar. It was time the settlements of Kel Ar’Ayen had names, to honour those with the vision to found the colony, who’d shed their life’s blood in its defence. Saedrin’s stones, he wasn’t about to let Den Fellaemion just be written out of history as subsumed into Tor Priminale!
He snorted with inadvertent contempt as the carriage pulled up in front of the D’Olbriot gatehouse and the driver banged on the roof once more.
“Did you say something?” Ryshad opened his eyes, swallowing a curse as he inadvertently leaned on his injured hand.
“No, but we are back,” Temar opened the door before turning to Ryshad with a faintly embarrassed smile. “What is a fair recompense for the driver? I have coin, but—”
“A couple of silver Marks will give him something over for Festival.” Ryshad scrubbed his unbandaged palm over his face. “Dast’s teeth, I’m weary.”
“You have had a busy day,” Temar pointed out.
“I should have taken more water with my wine,” said Ryshad ruefully. “At least you kept your wits about you.”
“Avila and Messire’s surgeon were firmly agreed on that,” Temar shrugged. “As little alcohol as possible after a blow to the head, they insisted.”
“Ryshad, Fair Festival!” The chosen man on duty in the gatehouse waved at them. “One of Fyle’s lads brought the news, and the Sieur said to broach a barrel for the barracks on the strength of it!”
“Fair Festival to you, Naer,” Ryshad grinned. “What bet did you lose to be on duty tonight?”
“Is the Demoiselle Tor Arrial within?” Temar interrupted. “You really must let her see that hand, Ryshad.”
Naer shook his head. He was as tall as Ryshad, Temar realised, with the same lean build but substantially more years thickening his waist and thinning his hair. “The Relict Tor Bezaemar called for her late this afternoon, something about visiting a shrine fraternity? She’s not back yet.”
“Are the Sieur and Esquire Camarl here?” Ryshad asked.
The swordsman shook his head again. “They got back from the courts just after sunset but went out again as soon as they’d changed. I think they’re dining with Den Murivance.” The swordsman looked at Temar with ready amusement. “The Demoiselles of the Name are holding a musical evening, Esquire D’Alsennin. They were most insistent I remind you as soon as you returned.”
“Thanks.” Ryshad looked thoughtful as they walked away. “I wonder how well Master Burquest argued today.”
“Tell me about Den Murivance,” Temar invited. “What is their status compared to D’Olbriot? What is their interest in Kel Ar’Ayen?”
“I imagine the key there’s the embarrassment of eligible and marriageable daughters blessing their House.” Ryshad took a deep breath of the cool evening air but it still turned into another yawn. “Any one of whom would make a wife with rank to reinforce your claim to restoring your Name. That would certainly settle the rumours that the Sieur’s planning to marry you off to one of his nieces. Another major House stepping into play over Kellarin would give Names like Den Thasnet pause for thought as well.”
They were heading for the residence, black shadows adding their own solid pattern to the complexity of the gardens. At every turn of these paths within hedges within walls Temar felt increasingly penned in.
“Den Murivance is extremely wealthy,” continued Ryshad. “They’ve significant holdings from Lequesine to Moretayne. The only reason they don’t have quite D’Olbriot’s prestige is the last three Sieurs have been more interested in commerce than politics.” He looked at Temar with a wicked smile. “So, did you find Gelaia easy on the eye this morning? A white-feathered fan means a girl’s open to offers, did you know that?”
Temar struggled for an answer. Looking away from Ryshad’s gently mocking gaze, he saw two figures coming down the path, their sudden hesitation catching Temar’s eye. “Who are they?”
“Visiting servants?” Ryshad peered into the gloom but the men had halted in the dimness where the flaming torches of the gatehouse fell short of the glow from the windows of the residence.
Temar shrugged and continued walking. The two men did the same, passing Ryshad with eyes firmly fixed on the ground. Their steps crunched with increasing haste.
Ryshad stopped and looked at Temar. “I didn’t recognise them, did you?”
Temar shook his head. “And I have this old-fashioned habit of actually looking at servants.”
“And they look at you, more to the point, and bow.” Ryshad frowned. “All the visiting servants have been told you’re entitled to every courtesy, in no uncertain terms.”
They turned to see the two unknown men disappear abruptly behind a thick yew hedge.
“They’re cutting round the residence to the stableyard.” Ryshad was scowling.
“Honest servants with permission to go out would surely leave through the main gate?” Temar’s own suspicions were growing.
“Dast curse it,” Ryshad said crossly. “It’s probably nothing, but sometimes sneak thieves take advantage of Festival comings and goings. I’ll go back and tell Naer to verify anyone trying to leave. You get over to the stables and tell whoever’s on watch to get his thumb out of his arse. Tell them to shut the gates.”
Temar didn’t need telling twice and ran down the shadowed path on light feet, settling his sword on his hip out of old habit.
The stableyard opened on to the lane running round behind the residence. The main block was a low, wide building and Temar passed doors warm with the scent of horses stalled within, more animals housed in wings reaching back into the darkness on either side. A steeply gabled coach-house flanked the stables on one hand while on the other a squat granary perched on stone-flanged pillars to foil greedy vermin. A newer dwelling for grooms and stable boys presented a squarely Rational face to these buildings, sharp stone corners and rigidly parallel windows in contrast to older, curving lines and ornate cornices. Beyond the beaten expanse of earth where coach wheels wore a rutted circle, wrought-iron gates stood open to the night. Carefully shuttered lanterns illuminated a couple of grooms playing an idle game of Raven on an upturned barrel.