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“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 i
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’Alse
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’Alse
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?”
“What?” Casuel stared at the man. “No, I’m a wizard and—”
But the doorkeeper was leaning over Temar, who was deathly pale in the shadows. With a surge of relief, Casuel saw the lad’s eyes were open and he knelt hastily. “What’s this mishap? Did you trip?” He strained to understand Temar’s mumble, his archaic accent thick.
“I hurt myself.” His eyes were disorientated and vague. Casuel was appalled to see a huge bruise on Temar’s temple, the swelling a finger thick and the colour of a ripe plum. He was shocked to realise the brutal lines mimicked the moulding at the base of the pillar.
“Bide still, boy,” instructed the doorkeeper, blunt face concerned.
“What happened?” demanded Casuel.
“I hurt myself,” repeated Temar in puzzled tones. “How did I hurt myself?”
“Temar, what happened?”
“I hurt myself
“Can you hear me?” Casuel reached for Temar’s shoulder, thinking to shake some sense into the boy, but snatched his hand back from blood soaking the outstretched sleeve. Where was that coming from?
“Has someone gone for Tor Kanselin’s sergeant?” the doorkeeper bellowed, scowling bushy black brows at Casuel, stark contrast to his shaven, balding head.
“We must get him to D’Olbriot’s surgeon.” Casuel snapped his fingers in front of Temar’s wandering eyes. “Temar, answer me, what happened?”
“It hurts,” the boy mumbled again. “How did I hurt myself?”
“No one’s moving him,” the doorkeeper growled at Casuel. “You lie steady, boy.”
Casuel fumbled nerveless fingers beneath his shirt for the D’Olbriot amulet he wore as a courtesy to the Name. “I have the authority to insist.”
“No one moves the lad till Tor Kanselin’s surgeon says.” The burly man looked hard at Casuel while one gentle hand stroked Temar’s head in mute reassurance, thick fingers light on the fine black hair. “I’ll not answer to my Sieur for letting you kill him with mishandling, whoever you are.”
“Kill him?” Casuel sat back on his heels, aghast.
“There’s a knife in his back, you fool!” The doorkeeper moved his protective arm slightly.
Casuel saw the dagger, unadorned hilt shuddering and catching the light as Temar drew a shallow breath. “We should press something to the wound to stop the blood.” Cold sweat beaded Casuel’s brow and he felt sick to his stomach. Screwing his eyes shut he fought to quell the nausea and terror threatening to overwhelm him.