“Come to see your brother?” A man clutching a bone-topped double pipe stopped on his way past.
“Yes, of course.” Casuel smiled weakly at the musician.
“Up there,” the man nodded at the stage. “Go on up, no one’ll mind.” The piper walked out, shirt tails loose over dirty breeches.
Casuel ignored the man, scanning the room for Den Thasnet, hissing with exasperation as he tried to find the Esquire in the constantly shifting crowd. Knots of people gathered and broke apart, dragging chairs out of ragged rows to make circles abandoned moments later. Cries of greeting cut through screeches of laughter as girls in dresses far too immodest for public display embraced in an excess of giddiness. The men were no better, coats and cuffs unbuttoned, lace collars untidily askew. Bottles of wine were being purchased from a side room and passed from hand to hand. Casuel sniffed with disapproval as he caught the sharp aromatic scent of stronger spirits. No wonder no one was wearing any insignia to identify the House they were disgracing with such behaviour.
The throng parted just long enough for him to see Firon Den Thasnet but in the next instant a giggling girl pulled her companion across the wizard’s view. She turned her flushed face for a kiss that the youth was glad to supply before another lad folded the girl in a smothering embrace. Casuel gaped, horrified at such promiscuous indecency until a passing musician dug him in the ribs with a chuckle. “She’ll be letting more’n her hair down by sunset, won’t she?”
Casuel turned abruptly to the narrow steps leading on to the stage. Watching warily as the busy craftsmen moved half-finished scenery around, he found a vantage point behind a curtain and looked for Den Thasnet again. There he was, sitting on a solitary chair, booted feet outstretched, scowling at people he tripped, his disgruntled expression deterring anyone thinking of including him in their conversation.
“Cas? Someone said you wanted me?” An impatient voice at his shoulder made the wizard jump.
“What? No, not particularly.” Casuel turned to see his brother looking askance.
“Then what are you doing here?” demanded Amalin.
“I’m about the Archmage’s business,” said Casuel loftily, glancing back at Den Thasnet, who was still sitting alone. “And Messire D’Olbriot’s. Nothing to do with you.”
“It is if you’re doing it in my theatre,” Amalin retorted robustly. “Is this something to do with all those questions you had the other day? I told you, I’ve no idea which noble House is slandering another, and I’ve less interest. All that concerns me is which ones pay prompt.”
Casuel sniffed. “Ever the merchant. You peddle your music like a wandering harpist.”
“At least it’s a honest trade, Master Mage,” sneered Amalin. “Mother’s not ashamed to tell her sewing circle about my latest triumphs. Did I tell you I’ve written a new round dance for the Emperor’s entertainment tomorrow?”
Casuel looked resolutely back at Firon, who was chewing a thumbnail and looking around sourly.
“So who are you spying on, Cas?” Appreciably taller, Amalin peered easily over the wizard’s shoulder. “The charming Esquire Den Thasnet?”
“Do you know him? Why? How?”
Amalin chuckled unpleasantly. “Oh, you’ll talk to me when you want to know something?”
“Don’t play the fool, Amalin,” snapped Casuel. “This is important.”
“So’s rehearsing my musicians.” Amalin turned to leave.
“What would it do for your career if I told Messire D’Olbriot how uncooperative you’re being?” threatened Casuel.
“Not much harm,” Amalin shrugged. “They’re saying the old Sieur’s out of favour with the Emperor anyway.”
Casuel gaped. “Who’s saying?”
“Him, and his cronies.” Amalin nodded at Firon Den Thasnet. “Not that I pay much heed. Den Thasnet owes more money to more entertainers than any other House in the city. Say what you like about D’Olbriot, the stiff old stick pays up by return messenger.”
“You’d go a good deal further in your chosen profession with a little more respect for your betters,” said Casuel bitingly.
“Bowing and scraping to anyone entitled to call themselves Den Something?” scoffed Amalin. “Why should I? Half of your so-called nobles live on credit and wishful thinking. It’s honest traders like Father brought me the coin to build this place. They pay in full the moment the last note sounds at their banquets.”
“Paying for lewd masquerades danced by girls no better than common trollops, you mean,” retorted Casuel. “I’m surprised to see you still bothering with proper puppetry.” He waved a hand at the marionettes hanging high above their heads, each as tall as a child, a masterpiece of woodwork dressed with a tailor’s finest skill.
“I’ll stage whatever pays, Cas.” Amalin’s smile was mocking. “Same as I’ll let these wastrels use my place for their meetings and intrigues just as long as they pay with both hands for the privilege of drinking cheap wine while they do it.”
“It’s all just counting coin with you, isn’t it?” Casuel did his best to look down his nose at the taller man.
“At least I don’t need Mother sending me money to put the clothes on my back.” Amalin winked at him. “And my boots don’t stink of horseshit either.”
“Then why do you look as if you fell out of some charity guild’s ragbag?” countered Casuel.
Amalin brushed a negligent hand down his faded shirt, frayed at collar and cuffs. “Work clothes, Cas, but you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“Amalin? Where do you want this?” The summons from the far side of the stage saved Casuel from having to find a suitable retort. Amalin’s arrogance really was intolerable, he raged silently. He had no respect for rank, wrapped up in his petty concerns and this tawdry sham of a world he’d built for himself. Casuel watched Amalin walk away with a faintly familiar-looking dark-haired man. No stomach for continuing the debate, little brother? Well, it wasn’t the first time Casuel had set him right on a few things.
He looked back into the crowd to see Firon Den Thasnet deep in conversation with someone. Who was it? What had he missed? Cursing Amalin for distracting him, Casuel struggled to calm himself sufficiently to float an invisible stream of magic drawn from air and light over the heads of the revellers. Concentrating hard, he waited impatiently for words to drift down the spell.
“—this, that, the other,” hissed Firon. “I do it and what do I have to show? That fool of a boy got his arse well and truly kicked by D’Olbriot’s man, so that dog won’t hunt again. And your so-called advocate made a piss-poor showing over the Land Tax. What have you got to say about that?”
“I recommended the best advocate for the coin you were willing to pay,” shrugged the newcomer. “I fail to see how you can blame me when D’Olbriot hires a more experienced man. Anyway, even if they’re not being taxed on Kellarin for last year, there’s been no judgement about next, has there? That game’s still in play.”
Casuel moved as far as he dared beyond the shelter of the curtains, trying to work out who the man might be. Of an age with Firon’s own father, and Casuel’s come to that, he was a good height, iron grey hair soberly cut, face unremarkable in its placid pleasantness. He wore no identifiable colours, merely a plain brown coat and breeches well tailored from good cloth. Casuel frowned; the clothes were styled like livery and that was no merchants’ fashion. Something about his manner was reminiscent of an upper servant as well.
“You said I’d find plenty of backing against D’Olbriot.” Firon’s complaints were rising. “Where is it? Any time I said yesterday they’re just getting what they deserve, all I got was the cold shoulder.”