“I’m sure Lady Channis will advise me.” Scandalised laughter drowned the rest of Gelaia’s words.
“But, Gella, taking him to your bed—” A young voice hovered between consternation and longing.
“Whatever else’s changed since the Chaos, I imagine that’s done the same way,” giggled Gelaia.
“My sister say a man generally wakes with a keen interest in his wife,” Jenty remarked with spurious innocence. “What must a man be feeling after sleeping away twenty-some generations?”
Temar had heard enough. He offered Orilan Den Hefeken his arm and escorted her back down the path. She glanced at Temar over the orange feathers of her fan, colour high on her cheekbones. “Gelaia wouldn’t have spoken like that if she’d known you were there.”
“That is scant consolation,” said Temar tightly. “I am old-fashioned, I know, but I look for mutual affection to prompt a wedding, not well-matched ledgers.”
“Affection grows, given time and good will on both sides, that’s what my mother taught me. A good match with love to gild it is certainly a blessing, but marrying for passion is hardly rational.” Orilan stopped, forcing Temar to halt. She looked at him, grey eyes searching. “Tell me it wasn’t ever thus, even in your day?”
Temar recalled some his grandsire’s forthright lectures. “Certainly Raeponin always set restrictions in the balance against the privilege of rank.”
“Shall we try this way?” Orilan started walking. “Forgive my frankness, Esquire, but surely you need someone to guide you through the complexities of Toremal, just as surely as we need some way through this maze.”
“Are you offering?” Temar tried for a flirtatious tone.
Orilan laughed. “I was affianced at Winter Solstice. By the turn of the year I will be happily learning to love my husband under Den Risiper’s roof.”
“My felicitations.” Temar concentrated on finding a path through the maze. In fewer turns than he expected, the hedges ushered them onto a small lawn around a little pool where Arimelin stood demure in greenish bronze beneath a tree-shaped fountain. A newly painted gazebo shaded a polite steward holding a jug.
Temar bowed to Orilan. “Some wine?”
Orilan nodded as Den Ferrand appeared with a furiously blushing Meriel. Temar felt uncomfortably excluded by their laughter as he waited for the servant to fill a tray full of glasses. Worse still, Temar realised Gelaia and her friends were sitting behind the summerhouse.
“Esquire?” The lackey was waiting. Temar nodded and followed the man over to his new acquaintances.
“Well done, D’Alsennin.” Den Ferrand congratulated him with a friendly air.
“But you didn’t have mazes in your day!” Meriel looked at Temar with eager inquisitiveness.
Orilan hid a smile behind her fan. “We didn’t have them in our grandsire’s day, Meri.”
“You certainly have much we never knew, but equally it seems you lost much in the Chaos,” said Temar with studied carelessness. “Customs, provinces, Artifice.”
“Is it true magic held the Old Empire together?” Meriel’s eyes were wide and beseeching.
“A form of enchantment,” Temar replied carefully. “Not this elemental magic of the Archmage and Hadrumal. We knew it as Artifice, and yes, it has many uses.”
“My Sieur says that magic is all tricks and fakery.” Den Brennain’s words were half challenge, half curiosity.
Meriel exchanged an excited shiver with the Demoiselles Den Ferrand.
“You’re in deep with wizards,” Den Brennain persisted. “What have you seen?”
Temar sipped his wine. He’d hardly win any trust with tales of monsters spun from raging water, of lightning ripped from clouds to spear men where they stood. He didn’t even want to remember magical fire crawling across empty ground to consume the enemy Elietimm without mercy. “I have seen mages appear and disappear in empty air, crossing leagues in the blink of an eye. They can summon the image of someone far distant and speak with them. They can feel the passage of a river through unseen caves beneath the ground.”
“Or find gold within a mountain?” Den Ferrand looked speculatively at Temar. “A House with such resources to call on would have significant advantages.”
Temar spread deprecating hands. “Mages answer only to Hadrumal and Planir curbs any abuse of power.”
“You know the Archmage?” Meriel sounded disconsolate. “I’ve never seen so much as a hedge wizard make candles dance.”
“No?” Temar ran a nervous hand over his close-cropped hair. “When there are mages in Toremal?” He pulled a closely folded handbill from a pocket and cleared his throat. “This is to give notice to all lovers of the magical arts and admirers of ingenuity that the famous Trebal Chabrin intends to fly from the Spring Gate to the Vintners Exchange at the seventh chime of the fourth day of Festival. This feat will be followed by such diversions as the elements permit. All those attending are invited to make such payment as they are pleased to give.”
“A wizard’s going to fly?” Den Ferrand was incredulous.
“I have no idea,” Temar laughed. “The words are rather too carefully vague, after all. I confess I’m curious though.”
Den Brennain looked up to check the sun. “We could get there if we called for a carriage at once.” He sounded tempted. “But it’s hardly courteous to our hosts.”
“Yes, let’s!” Meriel looked eagerly around. “We’ve all been dutiful enough for one day, haven’t we?”
“I’ve talked to everyone I was supposed to.” Den Brennain jabbed a finger at Den Ferrand. “You wouldn’t have suggested the maze if you still had people to meet.”
“Gelaia’s just over there,” Orilan observed. “We can make our farewells to her.”
She walked swiftly past the summerhouse. Temar heard a note of curiosity rising among the hidden girls. He forced a smile when Orilan returned with Gelaia and the other girls in tow.
“You’re going to see a wizard?” A sallow girl with close-set eyes and a discontented mouth fiddled with expensive lace covering thin and lustreless hair.
“Esquire D’Alsennin, may I make known Demoiselle Jentylle Tor Sauzet,” Esquire Den Ferrand said perfunctorily. “Either that or some charlatan. Either way, it’ll be more interesting than staying here.”
“My thanks, Esquire.” Gelaia pretended outrage. “I’ll convey your compliments on his entertainments to my Sieur.”
Den Ferrand grinned. “My gratitude, my lady.”
“Are we going or not?” demanded Meriel.
“Why not? I take it everyone’s served their Name as they were instructed over breakfast?” Gelaia asked archly.
As everyone nodded, Gelaia led them confidently out of the maze. Outside, she summoned various lackeys with a wave of her fan, dispatching them with messages for her parents, her Sieur and concise instructions for the stableyard. Den Ferrand stepped aside to talk briefly to someone resemblance suggested was an older brother while Den Brennain made a bow to an elegant lady who soon sent him back with an unconcerned smile.
“I had better let Esquire Camarl know I am leaving,” Temar said suddenly.
“I’ve sent word we’re going out together.” Gelaia took his arm with a proprietorial air. Temar managed to smile with apparent pleasure, even when he caught an avid glance from Jenty not meant for him.
Den Murivance was plainly a House with horses and grooms to spare, Temar decided, seeing two waiting carriages with polished portcullis badges on livery and harness as they reached the gatehouse. Gelaia organised everyone with casual adroitness and Temar found himself riding with her, Orilan, Meriel and Den Ferrand.
“Where are you committed this evening?” Orilan turned her back on the crowded streets.
“Tor Sauzet,” Den Ferrand replied promptly. “And you?”
“Den Gannael. Tell me, is it true Den Rannion’s designate spoke to Tor Sauzet about Jenty’s prospects?” Orilan asked.