Temar and Avila exchanged a glance. “That is very good of you, my lady Tor Bezaemar—” began Temar.
“Dirindal, my dear,” she chided him gently. “We’re related, so I think I can allow it.”
Temar was startled. “Related?”
Dirindal smiled, delighted. “Of course, my boy. My grandmother on my father’s side was born Tor Alder.”
Temar stared, his mind scrambling frantically to make sense of her words. “My mother? She married Rian Tor Alder not long before we sailed—” His voice cracked.
“Oh, now I’ve upset you.” Dirindal took his hand between her own soft beringed ones and held it tight. “How thoughtless of me. I’m so sorry, my dear.” She snapped her fingers and a lackey with a glass appeared at Temar’s elbow.
A long swallow of wine did much to restore his composure. “So it’s a marriage connection of how many degrees?”
“A blood connection, my dear,” Dirindal assured him. “Your mother bore Rian Tor Alder two sons. She was widowed very young, after all.”
Temar choked on his wine. “I had no idea!”
“Well, I don’t suppose young Camarl’s had a chance to discuss such matters with you. But it’s true, you have plenty of connections you can pursue if you want to settle fools like Firon.”
“Been getting yourself into quarrels, Temar?” asked Avila with a touch of asperity.
“Not of my making,” he retorted.
“One of Den Thasnet’s sons was making himself offensive.” Dirindal defended Temar.
“Saying I am here to beg charity or steal property from D’Olbriot,” said Temar grimly. “And no one contradicted him.”
Dirindal looked at him, eyes alert in her plump face. “It’s a fact you’d have a legal claim on your mother’s dower, even after all this time. Tor Alder would be honour-bound to grant you something, and that would undeniably give you some standing, some independence from D’Olbriot. But no matter, everyone knows Firon’s a fool.”
“But we do have some begging to do,” said Avila with the first hint of embarrassment Temar could recall seeing in her. “There are valuables we need to trace if we are ever to bring the remaining sleepers of Kel Ar’Ayen back to themselves.”
Temar explained as briefly as he could while the Relict’s eyes grew round with astonishment.
“Vahil, Sieur Den Rannion as he became, he brought all these back?” Dirindal nodded slowly. “Yes, as heirlooms such things would be all the more precious.”
And these modern nobles see no higher duty beyond conserving their coffers of gold, thought Temar sourly.
“How do we request such things without causing offence?” Avila asked hesitantly. “If we are seen as making some improper request—”
“You certainly need to be discreet.” The Relict looked pensive. “Would you be willing to make fair recompense?”
Avila shared a grimace with Temar. “Kel Ar’Ayen is a rich land but more in resources than minted metal.”
“But Camarl will be spending his Festival arranging the very best returns for your trade,” Dirindal encouraged them both. “That’ll soon bring the coin in. The first thing is to find these things you’re seeking. You don’t want to risk an approach until you’re certain where some piece is.”
Temar sat up straight. “I have an idea about that. Heirloom jewels are often shown in portraits, Avila.”
Dirindal nodded. “Indeed they are.”
“If we visit families we believe hold artefacts, we might be able to find them in their paintings,” Temar explained. The uncertainty shadowing Avila’s eyes lifted slightly.
“Let’s see what invitations you and I can accept together over the next few days, my dear.” Dirindal patted Avila’s knee. “At my age, I know everyone. No one will think anything of me showing you round a House’s gallery, to explain dealings between the Names in the generations you’ve missed.” She held up a forefinger. “Let’s find Channis. She can wheedle invitations out of anyone not holding some Festival gathering.”
She got to her feet with a little puff of exertion and Temar hastily offered his arm. Dirindal waved him away with a smile. “No need, my dear.” She rustled ahead of them, small feet in high-heeled shoes tapping on the terrace.
“Who’s this Lady Channis?” Temar hissed with a hand on Avila’s arm. “Camarl’s mentioned her, but I can’t figure out her standing.”
“She’s the Sieur’s paramour.” Colour rose on Avila’s sharp cheekbones. “But it’s not the same as in our day. She’s a Den Veneta with widow’s rank in her own right. She and the Sieur don’t marry for inheritance reasons but they’ve been acknowledged lovers for years. She has her own apartments at the D’Olbriot residence and acts as his hostess for things like this. Don’t make a fool of yourself when you’re introduced.”
“And this isn’t scandal to set the ashes of the dead rattling their urns?” gaped Temar. “And have you seen that painting of the Maitresse Tor Kanselin?”
“And several others just as startling.” Avila fixed Temar with a steely gaze. “We must take the realities of this new order as we find them, my lad. Refusing to acknowledge a truth that’s biting your ankles has always hampered you.”
She shook off his hand and Temar watched her go with rising annoyance. He was about to pursue her, to finish that conversation to his own satisfaction, when he saw the Relict Tor Bezaemar with the original of that scandalous painting, a statuesque woman whose iridescent lace overdress was pinned back to her shoulders. The golden silk of her gown barely covered the milky swell of her breasts, but little could be seen beneath an inordinate display of opals. Her dark hair was piled high with jewelled combs above a face expertly masked by cosmetics, lips painted in a sharp blood red line. Dirindal was introducing Avila, who certainly looked the poor relation beside that wealth and beauty, Temar thought with some satisfaction. It was short-lived. If Avila wove herself into the web of gossip and cooperation that women of every age seemed to perpetuate, she’d be the one returning in triumph to Kel Ar’Ayen. How was Temar supposed to impress Guinalle then?
The music ended with a flourish and muted conversation burst into renewed life on all sides. Temar realised he was the focus of covert attention from more than one group of giggling girls and lifted his chin in defiance.
One maiden, bolder than her companions, moved closer and, catching Temar’s eye, made a low curtsey, her cerise dress whispering on the woven matting. “The musicians are very fine, don’t you agree, Esquire?”
“Most pleasing,” he smiled hopefully at her.
“Do you prefer the traditional style or the more Rational composers,” she asked artlessly, but her eyes were sly behind a fan of frivolous magenta plumes.
“I know nothing of either mode, Demoiselle, so am unable to judge.” Whatever game she had in mind, Temar wasn’t about to play it.
The girl looked disappointed before tossing her head with elaborate unconcern. “No matter.” She turned a dismissive shoulder on Temar, returning to her friends without acknowledging his bow.
He gritted his teeth, seeing expressions of faint derision pass between the girls. He hardly had time for music lessons, not with everything else he was supposed to accomplish in these scant five days. Were there any familiar faces in this room? Did he know anyone here who might help him achieve something to equal Avila’s undoubted successes?
As he looked round the room a knot of girls in a far corner drifted apart for a moment and Temar was surprised to see a familiar face. It took him a moment to place the little mage girl from Bremilayne; Allin, that was her name. He frowned. She had her back to the wall while the other girls pressed round, faces clearly malicious. Temar feared the mage girl was close to tears, face scarlet and hands pleating the front of what even he could tell was a hopelessly unfashionable gown. He made his way though the busy room and arrived without attracting undue attention.