“If you’ll ride on the box with me, my lady,” Master Devoir favoured Allin with a blatantly flirtatious smile, “there’s room for two behind us. Cas and the Sieur D’Alsennin perhaps?”
Temar’s expression instantly fixed as he tried to find some reason to avoid this. Fortunately Demoiselle Avila obliged. “I’ll ride with you, Master Mage.” Her tone suggested she was quite ready to squash the musician’s pretensions.
“Let’s make way for the other coaches.” Messire got into the open carriage with a discreet smile. “This promises to be an entertaining evening,” he observed in an undertone as I sat in front of him, my back to the driver. Temar took the seat beside me as Camarl closed the half-door. As we pulled away I saw Firon Den Thasnet looking after us with naked hatred on his face.
Temar followed my gaze. “I know Tadriol acted as he thought best, but it still galls me to think of Den Thasnet and Tor Bezaemar getting away with so much.”
“I agree.” Messire sighed. “But we know what they did, as does the Emperor. I think we can rely on Tadriol to let judicious rumour circulate as appropriate. The main thing is that they failed.”
“But what manner of punishment is that? What about the Relict?” Temar wasn’t going to let this go, and there wasn’t room in the coach for me to shut him up with a discreet kick. “She welcomed us in, all smiles and invitations, winning our trust, and all the while she was spinning snares like some fat old spider in the middle of a web. What of justice? She does us such injury and we have no revenge?”
“Revenge is overrated. We’ve half the egg each and all Tor Bezaemar’s left with is an empty shell.” Messire’s voice turned serious. “Turn your thoughts to the future. You’ve a great deal of work ahead of you, young man, you and the Demoiselle Tor Arrial.”
“I am well aware of that,” Temar replied soberly.
“But not tonight.” Camarl acknowledged a merry salute from a group of revellers. “Who did you dance with, Temar?”
The conversation turned to safely innocuous topics as the coach made slow progress through the raucous carousing of the lower city. As usual the commonalty were determined to squeeze the last drop of enjoyment out of their holiday. The morrow would see the first day of Aft-Summer calling them back to their workshops and duties, after all. I looked past Messire to see Allin giggling with the musician, who handled his mettlesome grey horse with considerable skill. Passers-by greeted us with cheers, some from dutiful loyalty, some too intoxicated to realise who was even in the coach but joining in regardless.
Once we were through the southern gate of the old town and on to the Primeway the crowds thinned considerably. An air of relaxation hung over aristocratic celebrations now that the demands of Festival had been met. The soft light of early evening gilded the city and a warm breeze caressed high- and low-born alike. Flambeaux were being readied and torches placed in brackets either side of doorways, ready to light the street when Halcarion wrapped up the sun in the soft swathes of dusk. Despite the heat a few traders were setting out braziers to cook delicacies to tempt passing revellers into spending their last few Festival pennies.
We turned into the Graceway and drew to an abrupt halt. “What’s the delay?” the Sieur called.
“Masqueraders, Messire.” The coachman twisted in his seat. “Tumblers and jugglers.”
The footman sitting beside him looked back as well. “Shall I move them on, Messire?”
“We’re in no particular hurry,” D’Olbriot said carelessly.
“Cas was saying masqueraders are not fit entertainment for the well born,” Temar began.
I was about to give my opinion of the wizard’s snobbery when movement caught my eye. We’d pulled up by the Den Bradile building where the frontage was being renewed and a wooden scaffold stood piled high with slates and heavy stone awaiting the morning’s workmen.
A shadowy figure in an upper window jerked backwards. I’d barely time to realise he was bracing a pole against the aperture before the scaffold was levered outwards. Slates and marble came tumbling down, the heavy wood following.
“Move!” I lunged forward to grab the Sieur but Camarl was leaning sideways to see the acrobats, out of my reach. Temar was looking as well, his back to me. I sent him sprawling into the road, caught unawares by my brutal shove, as I hauled the Sieur out from beneath the deadly hail.
We fell heavily on to the cobbled road. The crash of the collapsing scaffold deafened me for a moment, muting horrified shouts and screams all around. With a cloud of dust stinging my eyes and choking my throat, I scrambled to my feet. Temar tripped and fell against me. We grabbed at each other, staggering sideways, and getting our footing we hauled the Sieur upright.
“Camarl?” Messire looked round wildly, blood oozing from a grazed cheek. The evening breeze scattered the dust and we saw the broken ruin that was the back end of Ustian’s costly carriage. Worse, Camarl lay among the wreckage, gashed and bleeding, stunned beneath the slates and stones.
The horses were whinnying in panic as the coachman struggled to hold them. The carriage lurched, dropping hard on to its back axle as both rear wheels broke beyond hope. The shafts tilted upwards, harness gouging cruelly into the beasts, races dangling dangerously near their frantically stamping hooves. Camarl gave an agonised yell as the shattered vehicle lurched forward, grating on the stones.
Messire hadn’t suffered more than a few bruises and a coat of dust so I thrust him into Temar’s hands. Ignoring the strain on my back and arms, I lifted the largest stone off Camarl’s leg to uncover a nasty break, shards of bone visible in a ragged wound.
“I won’t be dancing for a while,” the Esquire whispered shakily, face as white as the marble, blood oozing blackly down his leg.
“Hold on.” Guiding his arm round my neck, I struggled to raise him.
“Help, here, now!” Temar bellowed, looking up and down the Graceway.
A juggler came running, several masqueraders behind him. He raised a hand and in utter disbelief I saw him throw a heavy-weighted club with unerring aim. It hit the Sieur’s coachman smack in the forehead, sending the man falling backwards like a poleaxed pig. The footman had very nearly got to the horses’ bridles but this sudden disturbance sent them into a renewed frenzy, tossing their heads out of his reach.
“Ware behind!” Seeing a glint of steel in an oncoming masquerader’s hand, I yelled a frantic warning. Dragging Camarl out of the wreckage, I could do nothing but watch appalled as the masquerader ran the helpless footman clean through. Heedless of his anguished cries, I dumped Esquire Camarl in a doorway.
“Temar! They’re coming for us!” I caught up the juggler’s treacherous club with one hand, grabbed Messire with the other, and shoved him behind me into the meagre shelter of the doorposts.
Temar had already got the measure of our situation, snatching up a broken scaffolding pole and bringing it round to sweep the feet out from beneath a masquerader rushing him with murderous intent. Another charged at me, live steel shining through the paint that covered his sword. I barely evaded the deceitful blade as I sidestepped his thrust, smashing the weighted club full into his face. The blow was hard enough to split his thin wooden mask clean in two. He fell back, clutching a smashed nose, blood gushing between his fingers. I snatched his sword away and drew a killing stroke backhanded across his guts, sending him on his way with a kick to one thigh.
Temar had scavenged a sword from somewhere too. He backed towards me, the blade held low and dangerous. As he did so, Halcarion threw us a little luck and the onward rush of the masqueraders was scattered by the horses charging headlong down the Graceway. The remains of the carriage swung wildly from side to side behind them. Startled Festival-goers fled in all directions, ducking to avoid splintered fragments of wood. One unfortunate chose the wrong direction, stepping directly into the frantic animals’ path and disappearing beneath the horses’ hooves. Screams of anguish from the woman with him added to the rising hubbub.