The Warrior's Bond

The doorkeeper looked at the wizard, puzzled. “Are you all right?”

Casuel was ashamed to find himself trembling like some mute animal. Who’d done this? Some low-born scum out to rob their betters, treacherous knives greedy for coin they couldn’t bother to earn like honest men. That would be it, surely? No need to fear anything more sinister.

The rhythmic tramping of heavy boots distracted the grateful mage from the terrifying possibilities forcing themselves upon him. Casuel scrambled to his feet. “Stand aside! Clear the road!”

“Let’s find out why you’re making this your business, shall we?” The doorkeeper’s grip on Casuel’s arm was like a watchdog’s bite and he barely needed to tighten the muscles in his broad shoulders to hold the helpless mage immobile.

Casuel’s indignant protests went unheard as ten men in Tor Kanselin livery forced the crowd back with staffs held level to make a solid ring of iron-bound oak, swan medallions at their throats proclaiming their unquestioned right to do so. The sergeant strode towards the portico, uncompromising in metal-plated hide. “What’s happened here?” He looked down from well over Casuel’s height, black hair cropped above a mobile, pockmarked face, dark brown eyes intense.

“I thought the lad had just stumbled,” explained the doorkeeper. “Then I saw he’d taken a blade in the back.”

“By the looks of that bruise, someone was out to break his head on the pillar.” The sergeant knelt to study Temar, whose repetitive mumbles had faded to faint whispers, eyes vacant.

“Don’t touch the dagger!” yelped Casuel when the chosen man drew a knife and carefully slit the back of Temar’s coat. He shut his mouth, horrified to hear shock forcing his words into a girlish squeal.

“Who’s this?” The sergeant glanced at the doorkeeper.

“Says he’s a wizard.” The doorkeeper gave Casuel a shake of unconscious emphasis. “Seems to know the lad.”

“Who’s he to you?” The sergeant carefully cut Temar’s shirt to reveal skin white beneath scarlet smears, blood pooled in the hollow of his spine.

Casuel swallowed hard on his nausea. “He’s my—my pupil. I am Casuel Devoir, mage of Hadrumal.” He wondered why that sounded so inadequate.

The sergeant peered beneath the fold of linen and wool held fast by the blade. “So this lad’s a wizard?”

Casuel tried to shake off the doorkeeper’s hand to no avail. “His name is Temar D’Alse

The sergeant gave Casuel a sharp look before getting to his feet. “Anyone with something useful to say, make yourselves known,” he shouted at the crowd. “Otherwise, be on your way before I call you to answer for blocking Tor Kanselin’s highway!”

This uncompromising declaration had people hurrying away immediately, scattering as a second detachment of armoured men arrived with a curtained litter carried shoulder high. A slightly built man with a shock of hair like grizzled sheep’s wool followed. His deeply lined face was jowled with age but his brown spotted hands were deft as he knelt to peel back the bloody cloth on Temar’s back.

“You have to staunch the blood!” insisted Casuel.

The surgeon ignored him. “Are you still with us, lad?” After a cursory examination of the wound he seemed far more concerned with the bruise still swelling at Temar’s temple.

“I hurt myself. How did I hurt myself?”

“Get him back to the barracks, quick as you like,” the surgeon said briskly. Casuel protested weakly as four well-muscled men lifted Temar to lay him gently in the padded litter. For all their care, Temar let out an agonised cry that broke into racking sobs. The surgeon tightened a strap to hold him secure before drawing the curtains close and nodding to the men to pick up the poles.

Hot distress blurred Casuel’s own vision. “Where are you taking him? I want him taken to the D’Olbriot residence, at once, do you hear? He’s a guest of Messire D’Olbriot, the Sieur himself! I want him informed, at once, and I want your names. Your Sieur will hear about this, I assure you.”

The wizard hurried after the litter, repeating himself in futile fury.

D’Olbriot Font Lane,

Summer Solstice Festival, First Day,

Evening

I hold a good collection of markers of one kind or another after twelve or more years spent in Messire’s service. Most of my duties in recent years have taken me away from Toremal but I’ve still got favours owed and small debts never repaid clear across the city. Spending this credit against redeeming Temar’s people seemed the best use I’d ever find for it, and as I walked up past the conduit house satisfaction with my afternoon’s work warmed me like the sinking sun at my back. There was a chosen man of Den Cotise I’d sparred with over the years; we’d shared a superior flagon of wine at the Popinjay i

I’d left word in a myriad other places that might bring back useful answers and had a double handful of chance remarks to follow up besides, so I was wondering whether to go out again that evening or to wait until morning as I began the long haul up the hill towards the residence. A tailor who’d been grateful to D’Olbriot since a troop of us sworn had stopped some chancers robbing his sewing room had introduced me to an elderly valet raised in Den Muret’s service. That Name had long faded into obscurity but the daughters of the House had married widely and well and with the help of the tailor’s ledgers, and the valet’s memory, we’d identified where. Better yet, the valet was now serving the newly nominated Sieur Den Turquand and pointed out several judicious marriages that had bolstered that Name’s rise. He reckoned the young Sieur would be delighted to ingratiate himself with D’Olbriot and Kellarin for the price of a few discarded antiquities.

Shadows beneath the fringed trees cloaked the road, oppressive rather than cooling, and a heaviness seemed to hang in the air. I looked up but saw no sign of the thunder in the deepening blue of the sky. Walking faster, I still found myself unable to shake a sense of foreboding.

It’s all very well Livak teasing me about feeling responsible for everything and anything, I thought, but Dast’s teeth, I’m the closest thing Temar has to family on this side of the ocean. Perhaps I should have stayed close at hand; something might have upset or confused him. After all, he was new to the city, and there are always a few young nobles we men-at-arms privately agree would improve after a thorough kicking round the back of some stable block some dark night.

Outright dismay hit me like a slap in the face when I saw the commotion outside the D’Olbriot gatehouse. Sentries who’d been idly displaying their crossbows to impress passing maidservants now stood stern-faced and vigilant. The vast travelling coach the elder ladies of the House used was being wheeled round from the stables, a full contingent of sworn men ringing it, swords drawn. As I ran towards them I drew my own blade, elbowing through the confusion as I saw a familiar face. “Stoll! What’s going on?”

Stolley was sworn long before me and chosen a few years since. One of Messire’s most effective sergeants-at-arms, he’s a well-muscled brawler whose ears still stick out like mill sails, even after the punishment they’ve taken over the years.

“Rysh, get over here!” He shoved a gawping vagabond aside, and raised swords admitted me within the ring of steel. I swung myself on to the ru