Camarl and Myred obediently rose to their feet but Temar’s jaw set in a stubborn line. “I will be needed to help Demoiselle Tor Arrial.”
“She can have the wizard,” said the Sieur with the first hint of irritation he’d shown. “Think about those you have living and breathing in Kellarin, Temar, not merely the ones who still sleep. This Festival is the only opportunity you’ll have this side of winter to meet the people you need to keep your colony afloat. So far you’ve attended one reception, got yourself stabbed and spent an illuminating evening drinking wine at a sword school. Making useful acquaintance must be your main concern today and tomorrow if you’re to have any hope of raising your House again.”
“We’re going to a garden lunch with Den Murivance,” said Camarl, looking first to placate his uncle and immediately after to suppress Temar.
“Perhaps I could—” The Sieur silenced me with a look.
“You’re going nowhere beyond barracks and gatehouse, Ryshad. For one thing, whoever wanted to stick a sword in you yesterday might send someone for a second try. More importantly, the House opens to the commonalty tomorrow, had you forgotten? Imagine the opportunity for mischief that offers. After last night’s disgraceful exhibition, I want you putting the fear of flogging into every man-at-arms who’ll be on duty.”
“Stolley and Naer—”
“You’ve rank to equal theirs now, and in any case neither’s shown himself to advantage over these last few days.” The Sieur smiled thinly. “You’re known but you’re just unfamiliar enough to keep sworn and recognised on their toes. I want every man wearing my badge alert for the least thing out of the ordinary tomorrow. You’re the man to make that happen.”
This was part compliment and part order. I bowed my head. “Yes, Messire.”
“When does Ustian arrive?” Fresil turned from staring pensively out of the window to bark his question.
“Some time this afternoon,” said Myred hastily. “And Uncle Leishal should be here later this morning.”
“Your brothers?” Avila looked to Messire for confirmation.
“Indeed, and we’d better have a plan to show them we’re meeting this challenge to the House.” The Sieur looked at the rest of us with unmistakable dismissal as Fresil loosened the collar of his shirt, faded eyes distant with malice as he took a seat beside the Sieur.
Camarl led us out into a corridor. “Are you coming to Den Murivance?” he asked Myred.
The younger man shook his head. “I’m promised to a musical morning with Den Castevin—and I’m already late, so I’ll see you this afternoon.”
Camarl nodded. “Temar, I’ll see you in my chamber.” He walked away without further ado.
Avila watched him go, thin lips pressed together. “The library, now.”
She stalked off, skirts swishing angrily. Temar and I followed, Casuel catching up after hovering indecisive for a moment.
Dolsan Kuse, busy shelving books, was surprised to see Avila sweeping into his library as if she owned it. “Leave us,” she commanded with scant courtesy. “I need privacy to work Artifice.”
That sent the Archivist on his way with a hasty bow as Avila drummed impatient fingers on a jewelled purse chained at her waist. “The Sieur can manage D’Olbriot’s affairs as he sees fit but we need to discuss our own strategy. Guliel is right in part at least. Temar, you had best spend your day raising D’Alsennin’s standard, for the sake of all in Kel Ar’Ayen. But you can keep your eyes and ears open all the same. Just avoid too many clumsy questions for Raeponin’s sake.”
She turned to me with an irritated shake of her head. “I was hoping to send you to watch Den Thasnet and follow that odious boy Firon for a start.”
“I can talk to the men as well as setting them weapons drills,” I offered. “Someone may recall something from last night, someone might have heard a rumour worth following up.” Going beyond the Sieur’s immediate commands wasn’t the same as breaking them, was it?
“Master Mage.” Avila rounded on Casuel, who was examining the lamentably empty coffer. “You will have to keep watch on Firon Den Thasnet. He is stupid enough to be indiscreet.”
The wizard’s jaw dropped. “Me?”
“Who else?” demanded Avila. “You were put at my disposal and that is what I wish you to do. The Sieur’s orders for everyone else were plain enough and you will have your elemental talents to assist you.”
“You’re the best man for the job, Casuel,” I pointed out. “No one knows your face, unlike me and Temar.”
“But how am I supposed to find him?” protested the mage. “It’s Festival, he could be anywhere in the city!”
“Scry for him,” said Avila briskly. “That is the correct term, I believe. Or do you need me to use my arts?”
“No, no,” said Casuel with ill grace. “I can manage that.”
“But what of the artefacts?” Temar began pacing in front of the fireplace. “You cannot believe that fool of a Den Thasnet will simply lead Casuel straight to the thieves?”
“No,” agreed Avila, unperturbed. “But I want to know to whom he speaks and, if possible, of what. I refuse to believe all this is just happenstance. If we can track some part of this malice back to its source, perhaps we can put a stop to the whole. Your magic enables you to listen from a distance, wizard, does it not?” That wasn’t a question; Avila had clearly been keeping her eyes open around the mages Planir sent to Kellarin.
Casuel coloured slightly beneath her searching gaze. “Technically, yes, but there are ethical considerations—”
“Take your scruples to Planir, when you ask if he has learned any lore that might help our search. Then apply yourself to Den Thasnet. I will contact Guinalle through Artifice,” she continued, oblivious to Casuel’s outraged expression. “Then, if I can get the Sieur’s permission, I will ask that thief some questions myself. Artifice can loosen an unwilling tongue where threats prove ineffective.”
“No, my lady. That is, Temar—” Nausea thickened in my throat as I recalled the Elietimm enchanter searching my memory, breaking open cherished recollections, scattering hopes and fears to be crushed beneath brutal sorceries. Bluffing a man with fast talking and Temar’s modest skills was one thing, truly setting Artifice on the man was quite another.
“I beg your pardon?” Avila looked at me in astonishment. Behind her I could see Temar looking aghast, frantically signalling me to silence.
“Only if there’s no other way,” I amended my protest hastily. “Word would be bound to get out and with the prejudice there is against magic, the notion that Artifice forced a man to talk—forgive me but most people would find that repellent. If Artifice is to rise above popular prejudice about magic—”
“Ryshad Tathel, let me tell you—”
A knock at the door saved me from the wrath building in Avila’s face. Dolsan Kuse stuck his head into the room and looked at Temar. “Excuse me, but Esquire Camarl’s valet is looking for you and he’s not in the best of tempers.”
“Camarl or the valet?” asked Temar sarcastically, but he was already on his way to the door. I followed him, bowing to Avila but avoiding her eye.
“Very well, go on, all of you,” she said ominously. “Do not come back until you have something of use to report. No, Ryshad, on second thoughts, wait.”
I halted reluctantly. “Demoiselle?”
“I want to see that hand.”
I walked over to her slowly, undoing the bandage as I went. “It’s not so bad.”
“Nonsense,” she said tartly. “And there is neither virtue nor heroism in suffering unnecessary pain, my lad.” She held my hand between her palms, flat above and below, crossways in an oddly formal gesture. Her eyes softened and she seemed to be staring right through me as she whispered a soft incantation under her breath. A chill ran down my back as I heard echoes of ancient rhythms in the arcane syllables.