“As quick as you like, Esquire,” the coachman puffed, reins wrapped painfully tight round reddened hands.
Temar found himself hampered by Allin clinging to him and Casuel managing to move precisely in his way every time he took a step. With people trying to leave as well as stubbornly holding their ground, getting to the coach was impossible.
“I’ve had quite enough of this.” Even Velindre’s cool voice cracked a little. A wind appeared from nowhere, no passing summer gust but a sustained, strengthening breeze. People blinked as scraps of straw whirled up around their feet. Temar closed suddenly stinging eyes but opened them again as he heard a horse’s indignant whinnying beside him. A space had cleared all around the coach, everyone retreating from something halfway between summer haze and a dust devil, dancing on a barely visible point of light.
“You see, Cas?” Velindre smiled “That’s control.”
The mage was too busy scrambling into the coach to answer. Temar ushered Velindre inside, then Allin, consternation on her face. “They’re not trying to move him, are they?”
“My dear girl, it is hardly our concern,” Temar said, exasperated. It was uncomfortably crowded inside the coach, since Gelaia had brought both Den Brennain and Den Ferrand.
“Please, do sit here.” Den Brennain tried to stand up to allow Allin his seat but fell back as the coach picked up speed.
Casuel forced his way through the window. “I must see where that man in brown goes.”
“Who?” Den Ferrand looked out at the fast dissipating mob.
“There, next to Den Rannion’s third son.” Casuel clenched his fists in frustration as the coach turned away up a road to the higher ground.
“That was Malafy Skern, wasn’t it?” Den Ferrand looked to Den Brennain for confirmation.
The younger man twisted awkwardly to look before a building blocked his view. “That’s right.”
“Who is he and how do you know him?” Temar tried to make his question no more than idle chat.
“He was personal man to the last Sieur Tor Bezaemar,” Den Ferrand replied.
“The man who knew everything and everyone,” Den Brennain laughed. “That’s what they called him, but he was pensioned off a few seasons ago.”
“Then what—” Casuel subsided beneath a stern look from Temar.
“So who is the mage among you?” Gelaia’s knuckles were pale as she gripped the spinel-set handle of her fan.
“Me.”
“I am.”
“I have that honour.” Casuel’s stiff words fell into stunned silence as Gelaia, Den Ferrand and Den Brennain all tried to edge together, finding themselves unexpectedly surrounded by wizards.
“Three of you.” Gelaia fanned herself rapidly. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“May I make known Velindre Ychane, Allin Mere and Casuel D’Evoir.” Temar bowed to all in turn.
“My duty to you all.” Retreating behind formality seemed to reassure Gelaia a little.
“Our thanks to you, my lady.” Velindre’s smile combined gratitude with considerable charm. “You rescued us from an ugly situation.”
Temar could see both Den Ferrand and Den Brennain bursting with curiosity, but before either could frame a question Velindre stood to knock abruptly on the coach roof. “We needn’t trespass on your hospitality any further. Our lodgings aren’t far and Casuel can escort us.”
He looked as if that was the last thing he wanted to do, but as the coach drew to a smooth halt Den Ferrand and Den Brennain both moved to let him out, smiles politely expectant. Casuel rose to his feet with ill grace, nearly falling over the footman hastily opening the door and letting down the step.
Gelaia looked out of her window. “The other coach is behind us. You two had best see to your sisters, hadn’t you?”
Den Ferrand and Den Brennain both looked as if they would have liked to stay but shared a rueful shrug and followed Velindre out of the coach.
“Call on me later.” Temar caught at Allin’s arm. She nodded, blushing a little as both young noblemen offered her their assistance getting out of the vehicle.
The door closed smartly and the coach resumed its journey. “Are we going back to your residence?” Temar asked.
Gelaia nodded. “I think you’d prefer to tell Esquire Camarl your version of the truth before rumour drops some tattered gossip at his feet.”
“It was hardly my fault. It just all got somewhat out of hand.” Temar disliked the note of childish complaint he heard in his words.
Gelaia was fanning herself again, gripping the handle like a weapon. “If the would-be flunkey with the filthy boots is D’Olbriot’s pet mage, who’s yours? One of the women? The dumpy one?”
Temar tried to identify the emotion threaded through her words, but beyond deciding it wasn’t jealousy he failed. “Neither. I mean, you cannot consider a mage any kind of servant.”
“Which one used magic on me?” Gelaia pulled a loose feather from her fan with a sharp tug.
Temar bit his lip. “I beg your pardon, but that was me.”
Gelaia looked startled. “No one told me you were a mage!”
“I am no wizard.” Temar shook his head. “I simply have a certain facility with minor aetheric enchantments.”
Gelaia looked down at her lap, her hands reducing the stray feather to shreds. She brushed at the fluff with a jerky hand but it clung obstinately to the silk.
Temar searched for something to say. “Do you know this Malafy Skern?”
Gelaia visibly pulled herself together. “Indeed. What of him?”
“You know these arguments persecuting D’Olbriot before the Emperor?” Temar said carefully. “The man seems somehow involved, along with Firon Den Thasnet.”
“It’s entirely possible. Skern always got all the gossip and he knows everyone’s weak points. Firon has got plenty of those, after all.” The uncertainty in Gelaia’s eyes was fading as she found herself on familiar ground.
“Whom does this Skern answer to?” Temar asked.
“The Relict Tor Bezaemar, who else,” shrugged Gelaia. “Pensioned off or not.”
Temar frowned. “But she wishes us nothing but good. She has been helping Avila, making introductions, free with her advice.”
“I’m sure she has.” Gelaia laughed without humour. “You’re the next best thing to a Sieur; she’ll be sweetness from sunrise to sunset as far as you’re concerned.”
“You think otherwise?” hazarded Temar.
“Oh she’s not inclined to cultivate we lesser sprigs of the family trees. She clips us well back if she gets a chance.” Gelaia made a visible effort to seal her lips.
“Go on,” Temar prompted.
“Swear on all that’s holy you’ll not tell?” Gelaia leaned forward, eyes hard.
“May Poldrion loose his demons on me if I break faith.” Temar swore fervently.
“Last summer, Jenty and Kreve Tor Bezaemar got quite fond. He’s the Sieur’s second son and the one being groomed as Designate. That would have been an excellent match for Jenty, no question, but the Relict has other plans for her precious grandson. So she dropped a few hints but Jenty wouldn’t take them, you know what she’s like. Well, take my word for it. Anyway, after the Relict went to her mother, accused her of trying to get Kreve to bed her and get him married that way, Jenty told the old bitch to keep to her kennel.”
Temar winced at the anger in Gelaia’s words. “Which was not wise?”
Gelaia paled and fear tightened her voice. “A few days later, Jenty’s maid was snatched off the Graceway. She was raped in some cellar and dumped in front of the residence at dusk. Now the sworn men on the gate brought her inside before anyone saw, and everyone swore silence, for the girl’s sake as much as anything. But next time Jenty met the Relict, the old dragon was full of sympathy. How could she know, when Jenty had done everything she could to make sure no word got out? Then the Relict just happened to mention, quite in passing, that such a dreadful thing might happen to any young woman if her luck ran out. Take my word for it, that dear old lady has more venom than a pit full of snakes if she’s crossed.”