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“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’Alse
“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’Alse
“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.”
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 ru