“Keep your nerve and people will come over to your way of thinking,” said the newcomer firmly. “Bringing all the rewards we discussed. Look at the cases brought before the Emperor yesterday. At least one of them will trip Burquest, no matter how fast he dances round the truth. Your side of the scales will rise, just as soon as D’Olbriot’s sinks.”
“Oh, will it?” Firon looked sceptical. “High enough to match me to a girl of rank who can still bring a decent coffer of coin? My father’s talking about selling me off to some fat-arsed merchant’s ugly daughter, he’s so desperate for some ready gold—”
The other man slapped a light backhand into Firon’s mouth. “Watch your tongue,” he said with genial warning. “Show a little respect.”
Shock sent a shudder through Casuel’s magic that nearly scattered the spell and he stepped back into the concealing curtains. Who was this man to dare such insult?
The blow hadn’t been hard enough to leave a mark but Firon’s face was scarlet all the same. “Show respect, have more patience, set yourself up for a mighty fall if this all goes rancid! All our dealings go just one way, don’t they?” he sneered. “When will I see some return on this venture?”
The newcomer smiled thinly before reaching into the breast of his well-cut coat. He brought out a leather pouch and folded Firon’s hand around it.
“Here’s a little on account.” The man held Firon’s fingers tight and Casuel saw pain chase perplexity across his spotty forehead. “Spend it wisely for a change and don’t let wine or thassin loosen your tongue. There are enough stupid whores, so don’t bother with another one canny enough to pick some truth out of your boasting. Some girl you had down by the docks came knocking on my door a few days ago, looking for an open purse to shut her mouth.” The man’s tone was amiable but the threat was unmistakable.
“What did you—” Firon looked sick.
“I paid her, what do you think?” As Firon smiled in hesitant relief, the man leaned close, voice cruel. “Just enough to pay her way with Poldrion, then I made sure that’s the last price the slut’ll ever bargain.”
“I’m not frightened of you!” The sweaty pallor Casuel could see soaking the colour from Firon’s face plainly contradicted his shaking words.
“Well said, your honour.” The other man released the Esquire’s crushed fingers. “Anyway, you needn’t be afraid of me. I just follow my orders, after all. It’s my principal you should worry about, who’s not best pleased, truth be told.”
“I’ve done everything asked of me,” Firon protested.
“So you have,” smiled the newcomer. “So go home and chew your thassin or find some warm little whore to cuddle. I’ll let you know when we want something else. As long as you don’t get greedy we’ll all win out in the end, won’t we?”
Firon fiddled with the purse in his hand, avoiding the other man’s eye. “When will I hear from you?”
The other man stood up. “Soon enough.” He moved away as Firon was hailed by another young noble, whose expansive movements suggested he’d already drunk more than was wise so early in the day. Casuel tried to split his magic to follow both men but only succeeded in breaking the spell beyond repair, splinters of ensorcelled air darting invisibly in all directions.
The mage shifted from one foot to the other in an agony of indecision, trying to keep both men in view while staying within the protective shadow of the curtain. He drew back as Firon came closer to the stage, now intent on a girl with brassy blonde hair and a torn flounce to her gown. She was flirting with another young noble who Casuel couldn’t quite put a Name to. Firon caught the girl by the shoulder and she turned with a well-rehearsed expression of delight that faded as soon as she recognised him. Firon raised the hand holding the purse and the girl smiled again.
“That’s the only music sweet enough for her ears.” Amalin was a few paces away, studying a sheaf of music.
“Who is she?” Casuel asked.
“Too expensive for your purse, Cas.” Amalin looked up from his score. “That’s Demoiselle Yeditta Den Saerdel.”
Casuel’s face reflected the question he hadn’t dared ask.
“You thought she was a whore? No, she’s far more choosy and far more expensive. You need an old Name and a fat purse before that one spreads her frills for you. Still, you’ll get an education you’ll never find in Hadrumal if you go sniffing after her.” Amalin went to stop a dispute between a carpenter and a painter.
Casuel watched an eager knot gathering round Firon and Yeditta, reckless youths in grimy linen and girls with cosmetics clashing brutally against the hectic colour rising on their cheeks. With brash boasts and extravagant gestures they all talked at once in an unintelligible muddle. At some signal from the brazen blonde the whole collection moved towards the door.
There was no way he could follow without being noticed, Casuel decided hastily. Nor was there anything to be gained watching whatever debauch they were planning to disgrace their Names. D’Olbriot already knew Den Thasnet was hostile. What Casuel needed to find out was who was pulling Firon’s strings, as deftly as any puppeteer working Amalin’s gaudy marionettes. He sighed with relief when he saw the man in brown talking to a dissatisfied maiden with heavily shadowed eyes trailing a wine-stained shawl from one hand.
A lutanist walked past and Casuel tried to match the musician’s nonchalant saunter down the steps. Keeping that brown coat in sight was no easy task down on the crowded floor of the theatre, but this was neither the time nor place to work magic. Overlavish perfume and stale sweat caught at the back of Casuel’s throat and he coughed. At least that made those closest step away with distasteful glances and Casuel caught a glimpse of the sombrely dressed man among the bolder colours all around.
This was no time for civility, Casuel realised, with these wastrels paying no one any heed, shoving and jostling without a by-your-leave. Biting his lip, Casuel used elbows and shoulders to worm his way between laughing embraces and belligerent disputes, ducking a retaliatory swing of some Esquire’s arm, scarlet with embarrassment as he inadvertently set a covey of girls fluttering apart with shrill rebukes.
Finally gaining the fresh air outside with a gasp of relief, he couldn’t delay to recover his composure. The man in brown was heading towards the old city, steady pace suggesting some specific destination. A gap opened up ahead of Casuel and he moved to outflank a goodwife laden with packages but a sturdy dray rattling past made him think again. Better to suffer the jostling on the flagway than risk being squashed flatter than a frog’s foot. Casuel forced his way on through the crowd, apologising, tripping, heart pounding and hoping against hope the man in brown wouldn’t hail a passing gig.
Den Murivance Residence,
Summer Solstice Festival, Fourth Day, Afternoon
Are you enjoying the music?” Camarl offered Temar a crystal goblet of pale pink wine.
“Is this what they call the Rational style?” Temar asked cautiously.
Both men looked at the elegant quintet playing under a rose-garlanded bower in the middle of an immaculate lawn. Smartly dressed and richly jewelled nobles walked past, pausing here and there to admire the precisely patterned flowers. A riot of summer colour around the serene grass was confined within strictly clipped box hedges, an arc of orange here, a square of scarlet there, framed by sprigs of gold and green. Tall yew hedges rose dark behind the flowers, and beyond Temar could hear polite laughter. The musicians finished their piece with a decorous flourish, rewarded with appreciative applause.
“No, this is something new, reworking country tunes in the style of old shrine liturgies.” Camarl sounded a little vague. “Adding counterpoint, harmonies, that kind of thing.”
“It is very pleasant.” Temar sipped the scented wine to hide his disdain. The gods couldn’t even hold their music sacred any more.