Out in the cool of the marble corridor, Casuel hurried to catch Temar up. “You met the Relict Tor Bezaemar? I hope you were polite!”
“She was the nicest person there,” said Temar with some force. “And she and Avila look set to be firm friends.”
“That is good news,” Casuel said with satisfaction.
“How so?” Temar looked at him. “I mean, I take it the title Relict still means she is the widow of the late Sieur, but is there more to her rank than that?”
“You really must study the annals I lent you,” said Casuel severely. “She’s the widow of the late Sieur who was brother to Bezaemar the Generous. If the Convocation of Princes hadn’t opted for Den Tadriol, she’d have graced the Imperial throne. No one’s better connected in Toremal.”
Temar smiled. “A useful ally to have won.”
When they got outside Casuel looked appreciatively at the methodical design of gardens and house. “My father has rebuilt in the modern style,” he remarked. “We have rather less space, obviously, but the effect is very much the same.”
The boy still wasn’t listening, the mage realised with irritation, seeing Temar’s curious face turned to rising noise beyond the gatehouse. “What’s to do?” he asked Casuel.
“It’s beggars and hawkers hoping to wheedle coin out of the nobility.” The wizard drew Temar aside beneath the broad arch as the gate-wards opened to a coach. “Riff-raff always comes flocking up from the lower town at Festival.”
“I have no coin with me.” Temar looked regretful. “Do you?
“Not for the likes of these,” retorted Casuel.
Temar peered through the barred and studded double gates and saw people thronging the broad road outside. Liveried men-at-arms cleared space for a portly Esquire and his lady to depart in their carriage and Temar saw two scrawny girls entertaining the crowd with a pair of battered wooden puppets, hands deft on sticks moving jointed wooden limbs. “Come on.”
“We’ll send word for D’Olbriot’s carriage, if you please,” said Casuel indignantly.
Temar raised his eyebrows. “We kick our heels while a boy runs to D’Olbriot’s stables and wait still longer for the coach to be readied and arrive? We can walk back in less time.”
“Persons of rank do not walk in the common road,” Casuel told him severely.
“As several people have told me this afternoon, my rank is by no means established,” said Temar sarcastically. “And I would like to get some exercise.” He nodded to the sworn man on the gate, who looked rather doubtfully at Casuel.
“Let’s at least keep out of the dirt.” He guided Temar towards the welcome shade of trees that edged the road, scowling fiercely at a tattered ne’er-do-well who raised a grubby hand to Temar. White and yellow flowers dotting vines that were threaded round the trees perfumed the air but Casuel’s nostrils still twitched, apprehensive of some stink of poverty. “What are you doing?” he exclaimed as Temar accepted something from a tousle-headed child in ragged motley.
Temar studied the coarse piece of paper. “What is a rope dancer?”
“Some foolish mountebank risking life and limb to entertain the uncouth.” Casuel tried to take the handbill off Temar.
“Exotic beasts can be seen at Vaile’s Yard, birds of the Archipelago and a great Aldabreshin sea-serpent,” Temar peered at the crudely printed text, smudgy promises of delights cramped close together. “Or there are any number of puppet shows, a wine-drinking contest, a display of tumbling and feats of strength, it says here. I see the Houses still put on plenty of entertainment for their tenantry.”
“None of this has anything to do with the nobility.” Casuel pushed away the arm of a lass trying to give Temar some other piece of rubbish stamped out with lamp black on a woodcut. “The rabble amuse themselves gulling each other out of their coin with such stuff.
Temar had taken one anyway. “An infallible cure for green wounds, yellowing of the eyes, disorders of the brain and the scald. What is the scald?”
Casuel coloured to his hairline. “Not something you’re likely to encounter if you steer clear of the brothels.”
“A tincture formulated according to the most recent Rational principles to combat the effects of summer heat by promoting effective perspiration.” Temar whistled mockingly as he studied the apothecary’s list. “As opposed to the ineffective sweat we manage without its help.”
Casuel beckoned to a crossing sweeper as they reached a sandy lane leading off the main highway to the rear of the Tor Kanselin residence. “You might as well throw your coin in a pond.”
The grubby boy brushed the debris on the road aside with his battered broom and they crossed, the mage forging ahead with a forbidding expression for hopeful beggars pressing closer.
“Casuel!” Temar’s indignant rebuke turned the wizard’s head.
“What now?”
“It must be customary to pay the lad?” Temar was waiting by the woebegone child who hugged the handle of his brush with arms scarcely thicker than the wood.
“Of course,” Casuel fumbled in the inner pocket of his breeches for some pennies. “There you go.”
The child’s pitiable expression turned rapidly to scorn and he spat at Casuel’s highly polished boots before disappearing into the crowd.
Casuel raised an indignant fist but Temar’s astonished expression halted him. “Oh, let’s just get home.”
People crowded close on the strip of flagway skirting the huddle of houses that served Tor Kanselin. Carts forced a determined path in the late sun, drivers shouting curses at a handful of tumblers spilling out of an alleyway between two tall storehouses, but the weary horses simply plodded on, blinkered to the clamour all around.
“Are those masqueraders?” Temar turned to Casuel with delight. “The mercenaries speak highly of them.”
“I’m not surprised; after all it’s Lescaris we’ve to thank for bringing them here.” Casuel scowled at the tatterdemalion figures with battered wooden masks covering the upper half of their faces. “The better troupes can be quite entertaining if you’re used to nothing better, but what you want to see are proper Tormalin marionettes worked with real skill.” He looked up from trying to identify the soft foulness he’d just stepped in. “Temar? Esquire D’Alsennin?”
Stolid faces met Casuel’s searching gaze, some with faint question, more uninterested and turning back to the masqueraders’ impromptu display of dance and song.
“D’Alsennin?” Casuel yelled, voice cracking on a sour taste of dust and just a little panic tugging at his coat tails.
Commotion suddenly stirred beside a portico jutting out from one of the larger houses of the hamlet. A low-voiced murmur of shock and surprise ran beneath the high-pitched clamour of the throng.
“Send to Tor Kanselin!” A shout went up close by the pillars topped with improbable stone leaves that held up a flat stone slab. The lone voice was soon joined by others and a confused surge of people nearly knocked Casuel clean off his feet. He struggled for balance; this was no time to get caught up in some disturbance, and where was Temar? Anger tightened Casuel’s lips. If the foolish boy had gone off after futile amusements offered by some inky-fingered pamphleteer, noble birth or not, he’d tell him—
The mage’s indignation tailed off into incoherent horror as the crowd in front of the portico cleared. A prone figure lay beneath the protecting arm of a doorkeeper. The man wore a pewter coat dark with dust. As the prostrate figure lifted his head for a moment, he realised it was Temar! Hard on the heels of that horror-struck realisation, Casuel saw an ominous stain spreading across the lad’s back. “Here, let me through, let me pass!”
Most of the bystanders were following the masqueraders who’d packed up their instruments and props as soon as they realised a bigger drama was overtaking their own. Those looking to watch it were only too happy to let someone else take charge of the calamity but the doorkeeper glared ferociously at Casuel. “Are you an apothecary? A surgeon?”