The Warrior's Bond

The Steward dismissed the man at arms and rose from his seat. “Fair Festival to you, D’Alse

“Fair Festival.” Temar fixed the man with his best imitation of his grandsire’s piercing gaze. “I wish to see the Emperor.”

The Steward was a tall man, sparse grey hair clipped short and face mild above the Tadriol badge at his collar. He took a moment to answer. “It’s hardly convenient.”

Temar wondered if that was a refusal or merely a hint he’d be well advised to take. Either way, he ignored it. “I appreciate the Emperor must be very busy, but I have to see him.”

“His highness will be at leisure this evening,” the Steward offered.

“I ca

“He is preparing for the dance.” They could waste half the morning in these futile exchanges, Temar realised. He wondered how to shake the man out of his courteous obstruction. Then he realised the man was wearing a golden bull’s head with enamelled horns and eyes set with chips of black opal.

“I must have approval for an insignia, before noon, that I may wear it at the dance.” Temar looked the Steward in the eye and hoped it wasn’t too obvious he’d just thought of the excuse.

The Steward took a pace back and bowed. “If you’ll await the Emperor’s convenience.” He walked briskly up the broad staircase without a backward glance.

“We wait here.” Ryshad indicated the maroon velvet chairs lining the walls.

Temar sat and looked at the portraits hung in regular lines framed by plaster moulding. “So which one’s your Tadriol?”

Ryshad nodded to a youthful figure holding a horse in front of the portico they’d just come through. “Tadriol the Provident.”

“Fifth of his line, as you recall.” Casuel couldn’t resist reminding Temar. “Tadriol the Thrifty built this palace.”

“Does that happen every time there is a change of Name?” Temar looked at the mage. No wonder these Houses were all so obsessed with coin, if highest honour came at such a heavy price.

“It’s only since Inshol the Curt that the Old Palace was turned over to the law courts,” Ryshad remarked. “Tor Bezaemar built themselves a new palace but they weren’t about to hand it over to Den Tadriol when they lost the throne.”

Casuel leaned forward in his chair. “Tadriol the Vigilant wanted to build somewhere open to the populace, noble and common. One of the reasons Tor Bezaemar were deposed was their inclination to hold themselves aloof.” The wizard warmed to his theme. “The Relict’s late husband was caught up in quite a scandal in his youth. The House raised their rents at every Festival one year, not just at Winter Solstice, so when Solstice came round again a mob of their tenants turned up and pelted anyone bearing the Name with copper coin any time they showed their face. They claimed to be paying their dues, but—”

Temar turned to Ryshad. “Is this place always so empty?” The silence was eerily disconcerting after the constant mass of people swirling through the D’Olbriot residence.

Ryshad shook his head. “You wouldn’t get a seat here after mid-morning outside Festival, and that Steward would have twenty men backing him up. But today everyone’s getting ready for the dance.”

“The Emperor can hardly be polishing the silverware. Why isn’t he free to see us?” demanded Casuel petulantly.

Temar turned his attention to statues set on plain white plinths between the paintings. Saedrin held his keys, Raeponin his balance, but a scaly snake curled round Poldrion’s feet, head raised to the god’s caressing hand. The beast’s mouth was open to reveal disconcertingly sharp teeth. Temar wondered if that had any significance beyond idle decoration. He was ignorant of so much in this perplexing age.

He stared at the opposite wall, at the massed Sieurs of the House of Tadriol. All he could see in those varnished eyes was accusation. He was claiming to be their equal? Just what did he think he was Sieur of? Did he imagine he’d ever win respect, even if he did claw back some remnant of D’Alse

Temar gritted his teeth. They could judge him if they chose, but he would answer to his own conscience, his own values. D’Alse

“Are you ready?” Allin’s distant voice startled Temar out of his reverie. He looked up to see a shimmering circle of air rippling in front of Casuel, Allin’s homely face distorted as if through thick glass.

“We’re still waiting for the Steward to take us to Tadriol,” said Casuel tartly.

“But the Relict’s carriage has just pulled up.” Allin’s anguish was clear if her image wasn’t.

“We have to find the Emperor ourselves — now.” Temar was first to his feet, Ryshad a scant breath behind him.

“The backstairs are this way,” Ryshad pointed.

Casuel was winding the long sleeves of his robe round his hands in agonies. “He’ll call down the guard, we’ll end up in chains—”

“You said I have the right to immediate audience.” Temar pulled Casuel to his feet. “My grandsire says rights are like horses — useless unless you exercise them.”

“This way.” Ryshad opened a discreet door hidden beneath the grand stair. Temar dragged Casuel along by his stiff sleeve. They ran through empty marble corridors, down a long hall, up a flight of stairs.

A liveried servant on a stool beside a door looked at them in surprise.

“You’re wanted below,” said Ryshad before the man could speak. “The Sieur D’Alse

Temar opened the door himself with as much authority as he could convey and strode into a small anteroom. Ryshad closed the door behind the lackey and wedged a chair back under the handle. “In there.”

Temar clenched his fists before opening the plain single door. He found it a pleasant airy room hung with small paintings. A single band of floral moulding ran round the top of the walls but the room was otherwise plain white plaster, carpeted with thick bronze rugs. Walnut chairs softened with cushions in autumn hues were ranged to one side of a broad marquetry table, where a slightly built young man had been looking into a hand glass as he combed his hair into crisp waves, a jar of pomade to hand.

“What is this?” The habit of authority belied his simple shirt and plain brown broadcloth breeches.

“Esquire D’Alse

“Of course, I thought you looked familiar. But this is neither the time nor the place—”

The Emperor was already reaching for a silver hand bell resting on a stack of papers.

“Cas!” Temar snapped his fingers at the agonised wizard.

Casuel looked at him blankly but as the first note rang out he flung a handful of blue fire to knock the bell from Tadriol’s hand. Documents fluttered in all directions as the bell toppled to the floor in unca

The Emperor pushed his carved wooden chair backwards in visible consternation. “I’ll have your hide for that!”

“Forgive me,” stammered Casuel.

“Work your magic, wizard,” Temar ordered him urgently. “Find Lady Cha

“It had better be a good explanation, D’Alse

“Lady Cha