I reminded myself of all the reasons I had to be careful all the way back to the residence. Then I reminded myself of all my reasons for staying faithful to Livak, not least because she’d probably carve my tripes out with a dagger if I strayed—and I’d deserve it. I groaned with exasperation. Where was Casuel when I needed him? I still hadn’t found time to persuade the mage to bespeak Usara for me, to get some news of my absent beloved.
A coach with the D’Olbriot lynx on its door panels was slowing for the incline as I reached the conduit house so I jumped up on the running board beside the footmen, ignoring their frowns of disapproval. I swung myself down when we reached the gatehouse and watched as the coach turned down the lane to the stables.
“Ryshad!” Verd was the duty guard hailing me. “We’ve just had word to send the thief over for the Sieur’s judgement. You’d better get over there or you’ll be neck deep in it!” His anxiety was mixed with justified reproof.
I hurried over to the residence, combing my hand through my hair and pulling shirt and jerkin straight, using my cuff to buff up my armring.
The sworn man guarding the audience chamber gave me a warning look. “You’re late.” He eased the door open just enough for me to slip inside the room.
The great audience chamber of any House is both a public space and a private one. It must welcome the supplicant while subtly reminding the importunate that rank should always be observed. The heart of D’Olbriot’s residence reminds any and all coming before the Sieur that this Name has lasted more generations than most and still leads at the forefront of fashion and influence. It’s an airy chamber, light pouring through tall windows with muslin drapes softening the sun. The room rises clear through two storeys and high above the white plaster ceiling is an orderly pattern of interlocking circles and squares, where borders of discreet foliage frame the D’Olbriot lynx and insignia of every House married into the Name. The walls are panelled with soft ash, the floorboards a welcoming gold, softened still further with a thick green carpet patterned with yellow flowers.
This sympathetic modernity has been carefully chosen because the fireplace harks back unashamed to antiquity. The massive hearth is framed by dark marble pillars and a great overmantel in grey stone reaches almost to the lofty ceiling. The central panel is inlaid with every colour of rock, crystal and semi-precious gem that those long-dead craftsmen could command. Marbles in every shade mimic the living blush of flowers, the vibrant green of leaves, marbled gold, smoky grey, lustrous blue, rich brown and smouldering orange. At the top, in the centre, Saedrin wears robes as bright as the morning sun, keys in hand with the door to the Otherworld closed behind him. Poldrion holds his ferry pole on one side, outstretched hand in inky black demanding his fee. Raeponin stands on the other side, gowned in blue, hooded in white, scales raised in mute warning. Below these three stern deities, Arrimelin is a girl dancing in a dream of delight, movement in every line of her white stone arms and scarlet skirts. Next to her, in a simple tunic the colour of rich brown earth, Ostrin holds out bread and wine, wheat and grapes springing around the feet of Drianon standing beside him. She smiles with motherly warmth, one hand resting lightly on the fecund belly beneath her harvest-gold gown. The whole is framed with black stone inlaid with every symbol of the gods, a riot of animals, leaves and tools in creamy marble relief.
The Sieur’s face was as impassive as those of the stony-faced gods and he looked about as cheerful as Poldrion. He had the only chair, a heavy oak throne with a high-canopied back. Camarl sat beside him, upright on a cross-framed stool of reddish wood. The Sieur’s brother Fresil stood to one side, glowering with Myred, who was carefully cultivating the stern indifference of his elders. Temar was straight-backed on a stool over by a window, face pale but determination in every line of him. Avila sat beside him, hands folded decorously in her lap, ankles crossed beneath her skirts, face emotionless. All the D’Olbriot men were in sober green, Avila wore a muted blue and Temar was an ominous figure in unrelieved grey, the great sapphire on his finger the only note of colour apart from his icy blue stare.
Stolley and Naer stood either side of the prisoner, polished and liveried, and I could see Stall’s collar cutting cruelly into his fat neck. A good number of other sworn and chosen were crowding the room along with most of the lesser Esquires of the Name. The air was tense with expectation and I could hear more feet scuffing above. A gallery rings the upper half of the room, and plenty of visitors had come to see the Sieur administer justice in their Name.
“You’re late,” Casuel murmured, all but inaudible as he appeared at my side.
“What’s happened?” I breathed.
“Naer and Temar explained how he was taken.” Casuel wavered on tiptoe, trying to see past a taller man. I took his elbow and we moved discreetly to get a better view.
“Was I called?” Not being on hand would be a mark against my name and no mistake.
Casuel shook his head but whatever he whispered was lost in the expectant shuffle of the crowd. The Sieur was speaking.
“You were taken within these walls uninvited. You have robbed us.” Messire’s voice was calm. “The only thing that could improve your situation is naming your accomplice and returning the goods you stole.”
Manacled behind his back, the prisoner’s hands were shaking. “Can’t be done, my lord,” he said hoarsely, chin on his chest.
The Sieur raised sceptical eyebrows. “Then you will be hanged and your head displayed on my gatehouse.”
A frisson ran through the room and the gallery above. The prisoner’s chains rattled as he jerked upright.
“Can he do that?” gasped Casuel in a strangled whisper.
“He can if he wants to. He’s the Sieur.” But I was as startled as the rest. I’d have to ask Mistal the last time any Head of a House used his ancient rights of life and death without deferring to the Convocation’s privilege of ratifying such sentences.
“We will not pollute the sanctity of Festival. You will be hanged on the first day of For-Summer. This audience is concluded.” The Sieur nodded and Stolley and Naer seized the prisoner by the elbows. As they hustled the man to the door, all three with equally startled expressions, the onlookers parted to let them through. As the doors closed behind them, we heard chains rattling as the shock of condemnation wore off and the prisoner fought against his fate.
The sworn and chosen took themselves briskly off to their duties and the Esquires of the Name hurried away, avid to debate this unexpected turn of events. I stood, waiting, Esquire Camarl looking at me, displeasure mixed with disappointment in his eyes. He pointed silently at me and at Casuel before following the Sieur through a discreet door hidden in the panelling beyond the fireplace. Fresil ushered Avila through with stately courtesy and Myred did the same for Temar.
“Come on, mage,” I said grimly. “We’re wanted for a private reaming.”
The door led into the Sieur’s sitting room where comfortably upholstered chairs were set out around a writing desk.
“Please sit, all of you. Where were you, Ryshad?” Messire asked without preamble. He didn’t sound cross but then he seldom did.
“I know someone who might help us find the other thief,” I explained politely. “I went to explain the little we know and to ask for help.”
The Sieur looked at me steadily. “It really is time you reacquainted yourself with life in Toremal, Ryshad. By all means use your initiative to make suggestions, but when we’re in a mire like this clear any such plan with myself or Camarl before acting upon it. A chosen man is far more visible than one from the nameless ranks of the sworn and his actions will be noted. Do you understand?”
“I apologise, Messire.” I dropped my gaze obediently.