So much for the hallowed observances the god expected from the Head of a House, thought Temar indignantly.
Their carriage halted as a wain loaded with freshly cut blocks of stone negotiated an awkward little bridge over the stream. Temar turned to watch it heading for a building as yet no more than a promise of scaffolding poles beyond the shrine enclosure.
“Here we are.” Camarl stepped lightly down from the carriage.
“Already?” Temar wouldn’t have bothered harnessing the horses for this distance.
Lackeys in bronze and beige escorted them through the gatehouse. “As you see, the late Sieur Tor Kanselin rebuilt in the Rational style,” Camarl told Temar in an undertone.
Temar only just managed to stop himself stumbling on the steps to the gravel walk when he saw the edifice before him. While later wings had clearly been added to the D’Olbriot residence, Temar had approved the new building as a sympathetic mix of old and new. It was evident Tor Kanselin had scorned such compromise. A square, unbroken frontage was pierced by regular windows, longest on the lower floors, graduated in size to the small garret rooms half hidden by the pediment topping the wall. Every line was straight, every corner exact, the pale stone ornamented with precisely parallel carving framing rigidly geometric designs. These angles were reflected in the sharply delineated gravel walks and hedges of the gardens, the potential unruliness of flowers banished and patterns of coloured gravels laid out instead. Where trees were permitted, they were clipped into tightly disciplined shapes, not a sprig out of place.
“What do you think?” chuckled Camarl.
“It is rather startling to my eye,” Temar said cautiously.
“It’s a fine example of Rational architecture,” Camarl commented, ‘and yes, it’s a bit severe for my taste. But the old Sieur was one of the first, so it’s one of the strictest examples you’ll see. Styles have softened around the edges these days.”
He smiled to a waiting lackey as they walked up to the door precisely in the centre of the frontage. “Fair Festival, Getan. No, don’t trouble yourself. I know my way.”
As the retainer bowed low, Camarl immediately turned down a long corridor leading to the rear of the building. Mock pillars of polished golden stone were set in the white plaster of the walls, supporting a complex frieze running above the tops of doorways and blending into the ornate decoration of the coffered ceiling. “That looks a bit more lively,” Temar remarked.
“Yes, Rational style is all very well, but you do have to recognise the heritage, don’t you?” Camarl sounded amused. “Watch your footing.”
The glassy marble floor caught Temar unawares as he tried to identify the mythic figures among the intricate detail.
“When we were children we’d get a hearthrug and slide along here if we could escape our nursemaids,” grinned Camarl, gesturing at the white expanse inlaid with mottled tawny lines.
Temar laughed but thought all those choice ceramics set on spindly tables must have been horribly vulnerable to rampaging children. There had been no such hazards in the halls of his youth, where plain panelled walls were only relieved by stern-faced statues on plinths it took three men to shift. Banners hung overhead from dark hammer beams and plain silken drapes only framed the long windows to baffle drafts from ironbound shutters. But he liked the idea of the staid Camarl causing havoc hereabouts.
A florid platter displayed on a side table caught his eye. Arimelin sat weaving dreams in her bower and the trees reminded Temar of the tracery engraved on his sword, his grandfather’s gift before he sailed for Kel Ar’Ayen. The blade had been made for the uncle expected to be the next Sieur D’Alsennin before the Crusted Pox blighted all their lives.
“Holm oak,” Temar said suddenly. “Could I take the holm oak as my badge?”
Camarl cracked his knuckles absently. “I can’t think of a House using it, not anyone of significance. The Archivists would have to check the lesser Names but we could argue for D’Alsennin precedence.”
Would that help put him on an equal footing with these nobles always flaunting their finery, wondered Temar. His grandfather had never needed such display; face and Name were enough to command respect from equals and subordinates alike.
“Here we are.” Camarl nodded to the waiting lackey as they reached the end of the corridor. The leaves and flowers of the plasterwork frieze framed a marvellously lifelike swan, wings bating in defiance and neck arched with its head hovering right above the lintel as if it might peck at those passing beneath. Temar laughed.
“Just to remind people who they’re dealing with,” smiled Camarl.
The lackey flung open the double doors with the efficiency of long practice and Camarl strode casually through, Temar rather more stiffly by his side.
“People will call in through the afternoon, then go on to other things,” murmured Camarl. “We’re here to socialise, not talk trade, so don’t let anyone press you on colony business.”
Temar wondered just how exactly he was to manage that without giving offence, but he followed Camarl obediently down the vast room. This high ceiling was another triumph of the plasterer’s art, swags and garlands framing flowers, knots, beasts and birds, too stylised and too fantastical to be anything but insignia, Temar decided. The plain walls, by contrast, were a mere backdrop to an imposing array of gilt-framed paintings. Glazed doors in deeply recessed bays in the three outer walls gave on to terraces where Temar saw tempting glimpses of green foliage. The inner, southern wall had bays to match the doors furnished with intimate circles of chairs upholstered in deceptively plain silver brocade. Fireplaces of clean-cut white marble held vast arrays of lilies, while bowls of golden roses scented the air from fruitwood side tables.
Two young ladies occupied one of these bays, prettily pink but appropriately demure in dull silk gowns of honey gold and jessamine yellow, collars of diamonds and pearls around their necks.
“Demoiselles.” Camarl’s dark eyes warmed with affection. “May I make known Temar, Esquire D’Alsennin. Temar, I have the honour to present the senior Demoiselles Tor Kanselin, Resialle and Irianne, two of my dearest friends.
Both swept elegant curtseys, first to Temar, then to Camarl. “You’re horribly early,” accused the one in the honey-coloured gown, hazel eyes charming in a strong-featured face.
“Lady Channis arrived just before you. She’s calling on our lady mother,” piped up her younger sister, light brown gaze fixed on Camarl.
Resialle, the elder, stepped past Temar towards the empty length of the gallery. “Let’s walk a little, before the room becomes too crowded. I’m sure you’ve been wanting to see the pictures.”
Temar could take a hint as plain as a kick in the shins. “Demoiselle.”
She led him briskly out of sight of Camarl and her sister, silken shoes whispering on the woven rush matting. “This is the Sieur Tor Kanselin who was uncle to Inshol the Curt,” she said brightly, indicating a portrait of a balding man, chin on chest and arms folded, swathed in a black robe barely distinguishable from the vista of storm clouds dark behind him.
“He looks half asleep to me,” said Temar critically.
“That’s a pose of earnest contemplation, I believe. In a time of uncertainty, a show of wisdom helped maintain confidence in the Name.” Resialle stole a glance at Temar from behind a raised hand. She adjusted a discreetly jewelled comb pinning a long fall of lace to the back of her high-piled black hair before folding her hands demurely at a trim waist girdled with a heavy golden chain with a pomander and a fan hanging from it.
Temar winked at her. “You need not play the tutor just to get your sister and Camarl a little privacy.”
Resialle looked a little abashed. “He said you weren’t stupid.”
“Festivals were always a favoured time for match-making.” Temar smiled, resolutely looking her in the eye rather than letting his gaze fall to the low circular neckline of her gown.