The gardener smiled thinly. “But he went this way, some sour-faced chap all tricked out like a draper wanting to jump the counter and mix with his betters.”
“I’ll pass the word,” the sworn man shrugged.
The two men walked away slowly, leaving Casuel all but throttled by indignation. What would some muddy day labourer know about fashion anyway? He was about to dissolve the blend of elements when a sudden thought stopped him.
The Archmage had told him to be discreet, so why not stay invisible? Casuel tightened his grip on the elements he was manipulating and added a complex lattice of air to baffle any sound he might make. Walking with agonised care, he went up stone steps to a broad paved terrace, searching for the pavilion where he’d seen Den Thasnet lounging.
There it was, an airy framework of white ironwork sheltering glossy citrus trees and a few unsightly pots of ragged ferns. Casuel peered through the windows to see Den Thasnet taking his ease, sipping from a glass in a silver holder. That was all the increasingly thirsty wizard had to see for what felt like half a season. Finally, as six chimes sounded from a distant timepiece, Firon slammed his drink down on a metal table, impatiently ringing a handbell. A lackey appeared, immediately sent away with brusque gestures and reappearing with a coat that Firon pulled on, tugging at his lacy cuffs with edgy hands. He shoved open a door to the terrace, slamming it back on hinges that squeaked in protest. Keeping firm hold on the sorcery sheltering him, Casuel followed as close as he dared as Firon ran lightly down the steps and through the gardens to the extensive stableyards. The mage’s heart sank as he realised Den Thasnet wore riding boots and was carrying a whip.
“Get me the sorrel gelding.” The Esquire snapped his fingers at a lad carrying a basket of grain. “At once, boy!”
The stable lad ducked away as if he feared a cuff round the ear. Casuel watched in an agony of indecision as the horse was brought out and saddled, Firon all the while tapping his switch impatiently on one boot.
“I’ll need you to bring him back.” Firon swung himself into the saddle and reached a hand down to the boy. “If you let him pick up a stone, I’ll flay your back for you, understand?”
The lad tried and failed to take a pillion seat on the restive horse, getting a smack from Firon’s whip across his shoulders for his pains.
Casuel moved forward slowly as the boy managed to mount. Invisible or not, he didn’t like horses at the best of times and this beast was certainly not going to like what the wizard was about to do. He pulled a handful of wiry hairs from the horse’s mane, sending the startled animal backwards in a clatter of hooves. The hapless stable boy slid off the sorrel rump and this time Den Thasnet’s lash raised a scarlet weal on his raised hand.
“You’re not worth your bed and board,” sneered Firon. “Get up or I’ll have you begging in the gutters.”
The lad clung on grimly to the saddle as Firon whipped the horse to a punishing trot. Casuel ran forward as two liveried men immediately began closing the tall gates behind the Esquire. Slipping through the narrowing gap just in time, he watched the retreating rump of the horse until it was lost in the busy traffic filling the route to the lower city.
But all was not lost, was it? Casuel looked with satisfaction at the ginger horsehair wrapped round his fingers. Ryshad would have been utterly at a loss, wouldn’t he? D’Alsennin wouldn’t have known what to do. Den Thasnet would have been lost to anyone without a mage’s skills. Casuel walked round the corner of the residence wall, looking in the gully behind the shade trees. There had to be a puddle somewhere hereabouts? But no, not in high summer, not in Toremal. Casuel belatedly remembered years when no rain had fallen in either half of summer. How was he to scry for the cursed animal?
“If you want to take a piss, go and use the drain by the dung heap!” An old woman stood up from behind a low row of pease in the garden of a grace house, squinting belligerently at the wizard. “I don’t care what your Name is, we don’t need you spraying round here like a filthy tom cat!”
Casuel realised his spells had come unravelled and coloured with embarrassment.
A younger woman appeared from behind an outhouse. “Oh, do excuse Mother, your honour, she’s not in her senses.” She bustled the old woman away, scolding her in a low, frightened voice.
Casuel walked hastily down the lane, smoothing his coat.
His gaze lit gratefully on a well, a horse trough beside it and a lower one for dogs. A few women were filling buckets with a desultory air, sparkling drops falling to be swallowed instantly by the thirsty dust. Casuel slowed his pace until they had slung their yokes across their shoulders and hooked on their pails.
He would have to work fast. Casuel hurried to the horse trough, hoping no one interrupted him. He dropped the horse hairs into the water, wrapping the coarse strands with verdant brilliance. A skein of emerald light coiled and twisted in the water, indistinct and blurred. Casuel wished helplessly for some ink to support the translucent image, laying his hands carefully on the surface of the water. The clear green took on a muddy hue. The image wavered but Casuel saw the sorrel horse making its way through a crowded street. Sweat beaded his forehead and he forced himself to draw unhurried, even breaths. Even the best scryers of Hadrumal couldn’t be expected to hold a spell together long in these conditions, he thought with growing apprehension.
The horse slowed to a walk, and Firon Den Thasnet raised his whip to clear a few passers-by and pulled the animal up with a cruel jerk on the reins. The groom slid off the animal’s rump, hurrying to hold the bridle as Firon dismounted. Casuel fought to still a growing tremor in his hands, watching breathless as the Esquire left horse and groom without a backward glance. He went into a tall building of brash orange brick, decorated with unashamed frivolity, an array of pipes fanned out over the double doors and stone swags beneath the windows heavy with fruit and flowers.
One might almost be tempted to credit the tales of Ostrin’s warped sense of humour at times, thought Casuel, shaking the horse trough water from his hands with distaste. Of all places in the city, why did Den Thasnet have to go there?
The wizard began walking crossly in the direction of the lower city, heavy with fatigue. Firon Den Thasnet had better be staying a while in that theatre because Casuel needed some time to recover himself before working any more magic. No one had better try blaming him if the noble youth was gone before he got there.
A jangle of harness turned Casuel’s head, and seeing a hireling gig coming up at the trot he waved it down authoritatively.
“Your honour?”
“The puppetry theatre on Lantan Straight,” Casuel curtly ordered the driver. He closed his eyes as the man whistled up the horse and tried to draw back some of the energies he’d used to manipulate the elements. It was all very well everyone expecting him to use wizardry to help them, but no one not mage-born knew what it cost, yet another injustice mages had to bear.
He opened his eyes as the gig stopped with a jolt and saw the driver turning expectantly. “Is this the place?”
“Yes.” Casuel looked with displeasure at the tasteless façade as he climbed out of the gig.
“Fair Festival, but that’ll be a silver Mark to you,” said the hireman indignantly.
Casuel tugged the D’Olbriot amulet out of his pocket. “Apply to the gatehouse for your payment.” He dismissed the man with a gesture, ignoring disgruntled muttering as he walked slowly inside the lofty building.
The narrow lobby was empty but for some discarded flowers wilted in the dust and a chair with stuffing spilling out of a split seat. Casuel hurried past a detailed depiction of Ostrin embracing a maiden with his hands in most impertinent places. Had the artist deliberately chosen the most unsavoury legends he could find for these garish murals?
Beyond brightly painted double doors, laughter and chatter echoed round the vast windowless room that took up most of the hollow edifice. The stage at one end was busy with craftsmen hammering, sawing or painting. Their efforts fought with snatches of ragged music from somewhere beyond and a faint ache tightened across Casuel’s temples.