Seeing himself dressed up like this was as forceful a reminder as any yet of just how far adrift he was from his own age. Qualms knotted Temar’s belly so tight he half expected to see his stomach squirming in the reflection. He moved his arms; no wonder these sleeves were so constricting, sewn tight to the body of the garment rather than laced in, as he had always been used to. What he wanted, Temar decided, was to rip off these stupid clothes, hide in that ludicrous bed and pull that absurd coverlet over his head until all these fawning servants and this whole incomprehensible Festival had gone away.
“A house shoe will suffice for this afternoon,” Dederic continued. “But the cobbler will take your pattern for boots at your earliest convenience.”
“I have boots,” said Temar curtly, turning to the chair he’d kicked them under. But Dederic was already kneeling before him with what looked like a girl’s slipper. Temar sighed and reluctantly eased one foot into the square-toed soft grey leather.
“I have plain buckles or—”
“Plain,” interrupted Temar.
Dederic reached into the box for an unembellished silver fastening. As the tailor fussed around his feet, Temar scowled angrily at his reflection. He could run back to Kel Ar’Ayen, couldn’t he, but what would he say when he got there? How could he excuse himself when everyone was trusting him to bring home the artefacts to restore loved ones to life and light? Ryshad was right; the chosen man could talk to servants and men-at-arms but it was Temar’s duty to deal with nobility.
“Don’t you have any jewellery?” Dederic asked plaintively as he stood. “Something with your own badge on?”
“Just this.” Temar raised the hand bearing his father’s sapphire signet ring.
Dederic looked doubtful. “It’s not quite the colour for that coat. Some diamonds, perhaps?”
Of course, Camarl always wore rings and pins, some collar or chain. No matter. Temar had no wish to show off like some cockbird flaunting fine feathers. His father’s ring was sufficient for him. “I see no need for anything more.”
“Perhaps a little pomade?” Dederic offered Temar a brush.
“No, thanks all the same.” Temar dragged the bristles through his hair and gave Dederic a warning look as the man made a move towards a scent bottle. “This will suffice.”
“I’ll see if Esquire Camarl is ready,” offered the tailor and bowed out with a practised smile.
Temar was examining his sword thoughtfully when Camarl came breezily into the room some time later. “Oh, we don’t wear blades, not indoors, not at a social gathering.”
“There’s no way anyone could fight in these clothes.” At least his own spare frame was more flattered by close tailoring than Camarl’s stoutness, Temar thought. He slid the gleaming steel back into the scabbard.
“You look most stylish.” Camarl ushered Temar out into the corridor. “Though this afternoon will be quite informal, just a chance for you to meet a few people before the real business of Festival begins—” Camarl broke off and clicked his tongue against his teeth.
“What?” Temar looked sidelong at the other man, noting jewelled clasps securing the turned-back cuffs of his amber coat, rings on every finger glinting beneath the lace at his wrists.
“I was going to say you’ll be able to recognise people’s Names by their badges but I don’t suppose you will.”
Temar frowned. “We have—we had insignia, for seals and battle standards, but from what Master Devoir said your business of badges is rather more complicated. But he did his best to drill me in the important ones.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask what would the D’Alsennin emblem be,” grimaced Camarl. “People will be asking. The Archivist set his clerks looking, but there’s not one recorded, not as such. Formal insignia were mostly adopted after the Chaos and your Name—”
“Had died out by then,” Temar supplied sadly.
“Quite so.” Camarl coughed to cover his discomfiture and for some moments they walked in silence down to the bustle of the lower floors. Camarl smiled at Temar as they turned down the final flight of stairs. “But even in the Old Empire, most Houses favoured some theme for their crests?”
“D’Alsennin mostly used leaves.” Temar closed his eyes on childhood memories of the silver clasp that had secured his father’s long hair, one of the few things Temar remembered him by. But he’d left that treasure safe with Guinalle.
“Leaves are certainly traditional, but you’d need to decide on something distinctive.” Camarl’s hand strayed to the enamelled lynx mask fastening his shirt collar. “Opting for your own badge would be a good notion, though. It’ll give us an ideal opportunity to introduce you to the Emperor.”
Temar halted on the bottom step to let a giggling trio of girls trip lightly past. “How so?”
“All grants of emblem have to be approved by the Emperor.” Camarl raised his voice above the excited buzz of conversation. “Well, that’s the formality. What’s important is our Archivist making sure any new device is sufficiently clear not to get confused with someone else’s.” He raised a hand and two stripling Esquires halted to let him and Temar pass ahead of them through the crowded hallway.
“We all just chose our own insignia,” grumbled Temar as they walked out into the sun. “No Emperor had a say in such things.”
“Life in ancient times was freer, perhaps.” Camarl stopped to look thoughtfully at Temar. “But after the Chaos, when the time came to rebuild, the Names surrendered freedoms for safeguards all would abide by. That’s why the Emperor rules on things like badges, since he’s pledged to enforce them.”
Temar was trying to find something to say to that when a new thought diverted Camarl. “Where’s Ryshad? He should be attending you.” He looked around the thronged gatehouse with growing displeasure.
“I had errands for him.” Temar met Camarl’s frown with a challenging look. “I have that right, do I not? To set him small tasks?”
Camarl sighed. “We have plenty of servants for such things. Ryshad really does need to appreciate a chosen man has quite a different status to the merely sworn.”
Temar dutifully followed Camarl through the crowd waiting in the gatehouse as a succession of small carriages and gigs were brought round from the stable yard at the rear of the residence. “Is everyone going to Tor Kanselin’s reception?” He smiled faintly at a young girl who was white with suppressed excitement.
“Oh, no.” Camarl snapped his fingers and the next gig drew up smartly in front of them. “The first day of Festival’s very informal. People mostly visit old friends and call on relatives in other Houses.”
He urged Temar into the open carriage and they were carried along the highway. Temar looked down the hill, trying to work out exactly where the D’Olbriot residence was in relation to what he remembered Toremal to be. So far he’d seen nothing of the walled city he had known, arriving after dark and then being jolted through seemingly endless crowded streets in the coach that had taken them to the archive. He’d seen nothing he recognised and found this lack of any bearings disconcerting. But the trees blocked any view of the land sloping down to the bay, so Temar turned to looked with some interest at a knot of buildings tight inside an ancient bank and ditch incongruous beside the square-cut wall of the residence. “What is that?”
Camarl smiled. “Grace houses, workshops, that kind of thing.”
Temar recognised a frail, silvery carillon of traditional bells. “You have a shrine there?”
“Sacred to Poldrion,” nodded Camarl absently. “A D’Olbriot priesthood for generations. The Sieur granted it to one of my cousins at Winter Solstice, I believe.”