“We’ll get it back to how it was,” I shouted to Banch, giving Casuel a dig in the ribs. The wizard was still gazing in some bemusement at the leaves and fruit, now all immobile unyielding stone again.
“You can stuff that where your mother never kissed you,” rejoined Banch shakily. “Take a sledgehammer to it. I want it broken and carted away before the day’s out, and I don’t want so much as the dust from mortar left behind.”
“The magic is quite passed away,” protested Casuel indignantly.
“I want it gone, all of it!” Banch turned on his heel, pushing Ezinna back inside and slamming the door behind him.
I looked at Casuel. “Can you break it down?”
“I suppose so,” he said a trifle sulkily. Scowling he rubbed his hands together, palms flat. Amber light sparked from his fingertips, incandescent shards of magic flying through the air to land on the coiled stone. Hairline cracks began spreading across the yellow stems, golden light darkening to a burning ochre as fractures gaped wider and wider, dust falling first, then small chips, finally pieces of stone as big as a man’s fist. Temar backed away hurriedly and the body of the first man to die fell to the ground in a broken heap.
Temar moved forward with a cautious eye lest any masonry fall on his head. He shook his head when he’d ripped away the attacker’s mask. “I do not know the man.”
“No, nor me.” I stared down at the face now slack in death. “Probably some minor Esquire, promised the sun, the moons and the stars in between by Kreve. Still, at least we’ve got him to face Imperial justice.”
Temar looked towards the prostrate villain. “Not if he dies on us. How hard did you hit him?”
I was horrified to see Tor Bezaemar’s face suffused with blood, his breath little more than a thready gurgle. “Shit, I must have broken his windpipe.” Not checking on him had been a novice’s mistake, for all I’d been distracted by Casuel’s little display.
“Take him to Demoiselle Avila,” suggested Temar.
“At once,” I agreed. “Cas, clear this all up and fast.”
“I hardly think—” he began indignantly.
“Do you want the Emperor asking Planir for an explanation?” I demanded. I held Kreve Tor Bezaemar under the arms while Temar caught up his legs. The bastard was an unwieldy burden and the distance back seemed thrice as far as we’d originally run, but fear for his worthless hide spurred us on.
We stepped out on to the Graceway to find a solid phalanx in Den Janaquel livery surrounding Messire and Camarl, sworn men with staffs levelled and sergeants-at-arms carrying unsheathed swords. More of the Cohort had the road blocked off for some distance in either direction and those caught inside the cordon were only being set free when two other people could vouch for their name and business. Several erstwhile masqueraders and acrobats were face down in the dust, trussed up like roasting fowl.
A number of sworn men moved towards us. I nodded with some difficulty at my armring, sweating freely. “Where’s the Demoiselle Tor Arrial? We need her at once.”
“She’s busy with the injured.” Allin stopped as she went past with a steaming cup in each hand. “Can I get you a tisane?”
“Get Demoiselle Avila,” I told her flatly. “Otherwise this man dies and Tor Bezaemar escapes all punishment.”
Allin thrust the cups at a startled man-at-arms and raced off, hitching up her skirts. Temar and I laid the stricken Kreve down as gently as we could and looked guiltily at each other. Demoiselle Avila appeared and knelt beside the stricken youth without a word. Laying gentle hands on his throat, she began murmuring some rhythmical enchantment that soon had the dark colour fading from his face. As the Esquire’s ribs laboured to draw air into his starved lungs my own breathing eased, along with the apprehension I could see mirrored in Temar’s expression.
“I take it he turned out to be the worm in the apple?” Avila sat back on her heels, heedless of the filth on her gown, lace overdress torn in a handful of places. Her thin face was weary but the gleam in her eyes promised ill for Tor Bezaemar. “I would rather be using my energies to tend the innocent injured.”
“Ryshad tells me it is for the Emperor to judge him,” Temar said, still rather mutinously.
“Quite so, though you seem to have done a fair job in the meanwhile.” Den Janaquel men parted to let Messire D’Olbriot through. He looked down at Kreve, who was still insensible, eyes closed. “I’d say you have your revenge on Dirindal now, D’Alsennin. She’s pinned all the hopes of the House on this lad since he first grew out of soft shoes.”
Temar looked suddenly disconcerted and sudden memories, not my own, assailed me. Temar had carried the burden of his grandsire’s expectation throughout his turbulent youth and that in part is what had driven him to Kellarin.
“Is Esquire Camarl all right?” I asked abruptly.
“Thanks to my lady Tor Arrial.” Messire’s poise was unmarred despite the lavish smears of blood darkening on his elegant clothes. “As soon as Den Janaquel can get us a coach, shall we go back to the residence? We’re hardly dressed for dining out now, and I think we’ve had enough excitement for one evening.” He brushed at a swathe of dust on one leg and I saw a faint tremor in his hand.
“What happens to him?” Temar demanded, prodding Kreve with a hostile toe.
“Den Janaquel’s men will take care of him,” the Sieur promised with steely authority. “Their House is no friend to Tor Bezaemar, and they know well enough that the Emperor will have their necks stretched if anything goes awry.”
It galled me to leave Kreve in someone else’s custody, but as a proven man in Den Janaquel’s colours arrived with a carriage for the Sieur I had no choice. At least the grim expressions on the faces all around the unconscious Tor Bezaemar reassured me that these men would be as good as their sworn word.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Sieur Endris D’Olbriot has caused this annal to be recorded and charges all who come after him to continue this work, in the sacred Name of Saedrin, Keeper of the Keys to the Otherworld, whose judgement every man must face
As Winter Solstice brings this year to a close, I do not know how to record a date, since all calendars are meaningless in the chaos that overwhelms us. The best I can offer is my recollection that this is the twenty-eighth year since the final solstice of Nemith the Last, also known as the Reckless. After the trials of this last generation I wonder if my father and uncles would have so rudely pulled even so wretched a ruler from his throne if they had suspected the calamities that would befall us. Should our once respected forebears be condemned as reckless in their turn? Do we suffer as a result of their impiety or does Raeponin weigh our own transgressions and finding us wanting, give Poldrion the nod to loose misfortune upon us?
The direst news I can attest to this Mid-Winter is that deaths of those bearing our Name have outnumbered births in this past year and who knows how many to those infants will succumb to the privations of hunger and disease in the seasons to come. Spurred by this, I have charged my scribes and Esquires to list each property remaining in the D’Olbriot Name, with a full list of every tenant, their claims upon us, the charges they have made on our coffers these five years past and the benefits we have gained from their loyalty. Raeponin be my judge, I have not seen the results as yet, but I predict a sorry tale of an ever shrinking fiefdom and who dares hope that there is not yet worse to come.
Let these words and the parchments appended thereto act as my defence down the generations, to whatever sons of D’Olbriot might survive to carry forward our Name, for the actions I am about to take.
We can no longer stand alone, on the dignity of our inveterate independence. The lone sheep is wolves’ meat and we are beset with marauders on every side. I purpose therefore to join with those following the Den Modrical pennant, trading what force of arms we may muster for aid in defending our lands under direction of the Sieur Laenthal. I have watched over the seasons as this youth has risen to rule his House through proven skill as a warrior and by virtue of a character more forceful than any I have seen, even in men twice his age. Minor Names, cast adrift with the breaking of every tie to their earliest loyalties, have been flocking to his banner. Inside a year he has raised a formidable force, winning notable victories against the predations of brigands from the Dalasor grasslands.