Blaise read the transparent threat; what he didn't know was its origin. From Valery's stiffened posture he sensed that the other man did.
"There is a law passed regarding killings between Miraval and Talair," Bertran's cousin said sharply from Blaise's side. "You know it well, my lord duke."
"Indeed, I do. So, if it comes to that, did my six slain men. If only our beloved countess in Barbentain could pass laws that guarded against the mishaps of a riotous night in the city. Would that not be a pleasant thing, a reassuring thing?" His eyes swung back from Valery to Blaise and settled there, with the predatory quality of a hunting cat.
And with that, Bertran de Talair finally turned to confront the man in the doorway.
"You frighten no one," he said flatly. "There is nothing but sour rancour in you. Even the grapes on your land taste of it. A last time, my lord of Miraval, for I will not permit this exchange to continue: why are you here?"
Again there was to be no reply, or not from the man addressed. Instead, a woman, hooded and cloaked, stepped around him and into the room from where she'd been hidden behind his bulk.
"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!" she said. "This isn't at all what I wanted to happen." The words were contrite and distressed; the tone was as far from such feelings as it could possibly be. In that lazy drawl Blaise heard boredom and vexation, and more than a hint of power. Not another one, he thought. Not another of these women.
Astonishment and a different kind of anger flashed in the eyes of Bertran de Talair.
"Ariane, what, precisely, do you think you are doing? Is this a game? If so you have overreached yourself."
Ariane. Ariane de Carenzu, who was queen of the Court of Love. The woman so sharply addressed brought up one elaborately ringed hand and cast back her hood, shaking free her hair with an unconcerned motion.
She's married, though, Blaise thought stupidly. Her hair is supposed to be bound up, even in Arbonne. It wasn't. Her hair was thick and raven dark, and as he watched it fell in waves down her back, liberated from the transitory confines of the hood. There was a confused, excited murmur in the room. Looking at the woman standing beside Urté de Miraval, momentarily unable, in fact, to look away from her, Blaise thought he understood why.
"Overreach?" she said now, very quietly. "I don't think I allow language like that even from a friend, Bertran. I wasn't aware that I needed permission from you to visit The Liensenne.»
"You need no such thing. But you also know that—"
"I know only that the duke of Miraval was kind enough to invite me to join his company this evening to observe the delights of Carnival, and I was happy to accept. I would also have thought, evidently wrongly, that two high lords of Arbonne might, for tonight at least, lay down a petty feud they carry, at least enough to be civil in the company of women and on the night dedicated to the goddess."
"A petty feud?" Bertran echoed, incredulity in his voice.
Urté de Miraval laughed. "This is becoming tedious in the extreme," he said. "I came to hear what passes for music this season in Tavernel, not to bandy words in a doorway with a choleric degenerate. Whose songs are we hearing tonight?"
There was a stiff, short silence, then:
"Mine," said Alain of Rousset clearly. "We will hear my songs, if you like. Lisseut, will you be good enough to sing for us?"
It was, she thought much later, when she had space for calmer reflection on the turbulent events of that night, not so greatly surprising when looked at in a certain light. Remy and Aurelian were both out of the room, and Bertran was certainly not going to have his own verses sung at Urté de Miraval's request; of the troubadours who remained, Alain had more ambition than most and as much right to step forward as any, and since she'd just finished a season of touring with him it was perfectly logical that he ask her to perform.
All such clear thinking came afterwards, though. At the moment, Lisseut was aware only that she had just been humiliatingly inverted in a tub of Cauvas gold wine, that there was a spreading puddle beneath her feet, that her clothing was ruined, her hair soaked, and in such a resplendent condition she was now being asked to sing—for the first time-in the presence of three of the most powerful personages in Arbonne, one of whom also happened to be the most celebrated troubadour of their day.
She made a small, gulping sound in her throat, hoping immediately after that no one had heard. The big coran from Gorhaut turned, though, and favoured her with an ironic scrutiny from behind his thick, reddish beard. She glared fiercely up at him, and that brief surge of anger, as much as anything else, calmed her momentary attack of fright. With what she hoped was a casual gesture she tossed the towel she was still holding to the bearded man and turned to Alain.
"I would be honoured," she said, as calmly as she could.
Alain's face, visibly contending with anxieties of his own, didn't much help her to relax. She understood, of course: the troubadour was boldly seizing an unexpected chance to make a bid for wider renown—and was handing her the opportunity to do the same. A moment such as this, singing in The Liensenne at Midsummer Carnival before the dukes of Talair and Miraval and the reigning queen of the Court of Love… Lisseut blinked and swallowed. If she thought too much about the potential implications of what seemed about to happen she would probably make herself sick.
Fortunately, the next face she focused on was Marotte's, and the delighted encouragement she read in the innkeeper's visage was exactly what she needed. Someone brought her a harp, someone else placed a low stool and a floor cushion in the usual place near the booths on the left-hand wall, and somehow Lisseut found herself sitting there, holding and tuning the harp, even as she adjusted the cushion for comfort.
She was still wet, if not actually dripping any more, and she'd had no time at all to prepare. Glancing up, she saw Duke Bertran walking over, a thin smile playing about his lips. It didn't reach his eyes, though. With Urté de Miraval in the room, Lisseut doubted if En Bertran could actually be amused by anything. The duke removed his lightweight summer cloak and draped it loosely over her shoulders.
"You'll catch a chill otherwise," he said mildly. "If you leave it draped so, it won't get in the way of your hands." The first words he'd ever spoken to her. He turned and walked away, to sink gracefully into one of the three cushioned chairs Marotte had hastily provided near the performing area. Lisseut had a moment to absorb the fact that she was now wearing the midnight-blue cloak of the duke of Talair before Alain of Rousset, two spots of excitement showing on his cheeks, came over and said, softly, for her ears alone, "The 'Garden Song, I think. Sing it, don't shout it, Lisseut."
The troubadours' ancient, standard injunction to their joglars rang almost unheard in Lisseut's ears. What registered was that in his choice of song Alain was offering her another gift. She smiled up at him, confidently she hoped. He hesitated a moment, as if about to say more, but then he too withdrew, leaving her alone in the space where music was made.
Lisseut thought of her father, as she always did when she needed to find serenity and sureness, then she looked out over the slowly quieting crowd and said, pitching her voice carefully, "Here is a liensenne of the troubadour Alain of Rousset. I sing it tonight in honour of the goddess and of the Lady Ariane de Carenzu, who has graced us with her presence here." Better that, she thought, than trying to sort out some kind of precedence. She was conscious though, very conscious, that she was wearing En Bertran's cloak. It was scented with an elusive fragrance. She didn't have time to decipher what it was. What she did realize, as she always did before she sang—a fleeting awareness but real as the stones of a wall—was that moments like this, with music about to follow, were why she lived, what made her feel most truly alive.