Camarl was still talking. “Amalin Devoir’s one of the leading composers in the new style.”
Temar looked up. “Casuel’s brother?”
“Yes,” Camarl chuckled. “Not that you’d ever know it from our mage. He’s made quite a name for himself, Amalin that is. He started as a double-pipe player, I believe, but was soon hiring out his own troupe. He must have an eye for business because he built one of the biggest theatres in the city from the ground up a year or so ago.” He looked at the slowly circulating Esquires and Demoiselles. “We should go down there one evening, once Festival’s over. It’s all very informal, just light-hearted nonsense.”
“That would make a pleasant change,” agreed Temar.
“Festival’s all entertainment for the commonalty but that kind of leisure’s a luxury our coin can’t buy,” Camarl said frankly. “There’s so little time to see everyone. But you can take a little more time to enjoy yourself. The Sieur and I will secure Kellarin’s interests.”
“For which you have my thanks,” said Temar politely. He looked round the myriad unknown faces and insignia. He’d still far rather be managing Kel Ar’Ayen’s concerns himself, if only he had the faintest idea where to start.
“There’s Irianne Tor Kanselin.” Camarl’s tone brightened.
“Go and talk to her,” urged Temar. “Unless you think I need a chaperone.”
Camarl’s laugh surprised Temar. “I’ll see you later.” Camarl walked briskly towards his affianced and Temar watched as the girl’s face lit up.
Temar sighed; Guinalle had never greeted him with that kind of delight, even during the brief dalliance that had meant so much more to him than to her. He began his own leisurely circuit of the Den Murivance gardens, exchanging polite nods and smiles. Whenever someone looked as if they might do more, Temar picked up his pace. He couldn’t face trying to remember Names and families, more questions about his unexpected injury, his hopes for Kellarin, subtle enquiries as to his precise standing with D’Olbriot and what he thought of the arguments before the Emperor. A growing sense of inadequacy aggravated Temar. He hadn’t spoken to a fifth the people Camarl had, arranging later discussions about ships for Kel Ar’Ayen, suggesting merchants who might link the distant colony’s riches to a given House’s resources. The knowledge he should be grateful to Camarl exasperated Temar still further, so he walked away through an arch of well-trained yew.
Shallow turf steps ran up to a broad terrace at the northern frontage of the house. Den Murivance’s home had little of the harsh angularity of Tor Kanselin’s, every brick and stone unmistakably ancient. But as Temar has been taken on a suspiciously extended tour, he’d noted all the furnishings looked brand new, quite the height of fashion.
Servants were still clearing away the remains of the recent elegant meal. Temar watched liveried footmen deftly piling plates and serving bowls, maidservants rolling table linen in neat bundles for the laundresses. Lackeys in workaday clothes waited to carry trestles and boards away while more outdoor servants dismantled the garlanded canopies that had shaded guests from the uncaring sun.
Temar castigated himself with painful honesty. You wouldn’t know where to start organising an entertainment like this, never mind running the affairs of a House in this new Tormalin. So why was he here? This wasn’t his place, and never would be. Why wasn’t he out doing something to save those people still senseless in Kel Ar’Ayen, where he really belonged?
“D’Alsennin! You’ll escort a lady into the maze, won’t you?” A fresh-faced Esquire hailed Temar from the entrance to a circle of green hedge. He and a friend were gently teasing a group of Demoiselles somewhere between Temar’s own age and Camarl’s.
Temar identified the Esquire’s marten mask badge as Den Ferrand. “If she wishes.” He bowed politely to the girls. The closest giggled, hazel eyes huge behind her fan of black and azure feathers, but Temar couldn’t identify the malachite insignia inlaid on the silver handle.
“I’m less concerned about escort in than escort out,” said a taller girl. Her chestnut hair was braided in a no-nonsense style and a tiny jewelled sword pinned her lace veil decorously to either shoulder. At least Temar could identify her as Den Hefeken.
“There’s a summerhouse in the centre,” volunteered the youth, brushing unruly black curls with a hand beringed with a sizeable cameo of a rearing horse. “There’s always a steward there with directions out.”
“I’ll go with Meriel,” Den Ferrand took the giggling girl’s hand. “Esquire Den Brennain, will you do me the honour of escorting my sisters?” He bowed extravagantly to the lad with the horse ring and then to two of the girls. One swatted her brother with her grey-and pink-feathered fan but the other blushed prettily as Den Brennain offered his arm.
“Demoiselle Den Hefeken?” Temar bowed.
“My pleasure, Esquire.” She smiled in friendly enough fashion.
“Which way do we go?” The girl Meriel looked around as they moved inside the ring of hedges.
“Do we split up or stay together?” Den Brennain paused as they reached a junction.
“Split up,” said Den Ferrand promptly. “First ones to the middle win—”
“Head of the set at the Emperor’s dance tomorrow?” suggested Demoiselle Den Hefeken.
The general approval suggested this was a prize worth winning. Temar didn’t much care but he followed the Demoiselle obediently as twists and turns took the others down different pathways, conversation muffled by the tall hedges.
“Is this a popular form of entertainment?” he asked the Demoiselle, trying to get his bearings.
“More than listening to our elders and betters negotiating access and revenues and leaseholds,” the girl said cheerfully.
“Indeed,” said Temar with feeling. “So, Demoiselle, do we turn or continue?”
“Call me Orilan.” She considered their options with a slight frown. “Turn, I think.”
Temar followed, but after an abrupt corner the path delivered them into a dead end. Orilan Den Hefeken looked apologetically at Temar, but before she could speak a voice sounded from the far side of the hedge.
“Are you seriously thinking of marrying D’Alsennin, Gelaia?”
“My father’s very keen to point out all the advantages.”
Orilan Den Hefeken smiled tightly at Temar before trying to step past him. He smiled back but didn’t move out of her way.
There was more than one girl giggling beyond the wall of green. “What advantages? He’s handsome enough but he’s four parts foolish! Ressy Tor Kanselin said he hasn’t the first idea about anything.”
“I have, which is what matters to the Sieur D’Olbriot.” Gelaia sounded unconcerned. “D’Alsennin can go back to digging ore and lumber out of his wilderness and I can turn it all into coin this side of the ocean.”
“So you wouldn’t be going with him.” This new voice sounded relieved.
Gelaia was startled into laughter. “Jenty! Have you had too much sun? No, he can keep all the delights of exploration and bad sanitation. I’ll stay here with decent servants and some real influence to play with at last.”
“My Sieur says that D’Alsennin won’t ever be more than a bastard line of D’Olbriot.” It was the first girl again, sounding dubious.
“That depends what I make of it,” countered Gelaia. “And there are worse places to be in D’Olbriot’s shadow. I’ll still be Maitresse of a House, which is more than any of my other suitors can offer.”
The murmurs of agreement were coloured with envy.
“It’ll be a mighty small House, just the two of you,” commented Jenty slyly.
“He’ll need to come over for Winter and Summer Solstices for the first few years,” Gelaia said airily. “It shouldn’t take too long for him to get me breeding. In the meantime, I’ll be entitled to a married woman’s consolations.”
“Don’t get caught wrong-footed,” Jenty warned. “Everyone’ll count the seasons when your belly swells.”