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“Something to drink, Temar?” Camarl held up a crystal carafe. “The Emperor wishes to break for a meal, so Master Burquest’s clerks will be bringing food.”
“Half a glass, thank you.” Temar filled it to the brim with water. “It would seem this is Ryshad’s brother.” He turned to the young lawyer who was waiting politely in the doorway.
“I recall you visited him at Equinox.” The Sieur held out a hand. “Mistran? No, Mistal, forgive me.”
Mistal bowed over the Sieur’s signet ring. “I’m honoured, Messire.”
“Mistal is going to watch Ryshad meet his challengers at the sword school,” Temar said. “I wish to go, if it can be permitted.” He did his best to imitate the tone his grandsire had always used to quell argument.
Camarl looked inclined to forbid it but stayed silent as the Sieur pursed thoughtful lips. “Burquest, is anyone actually bringing a suit against D’Alse
“No.” The advocate shook his head. “No one wants to give the Name any hint of validity by doing that.” Burquest chuckled. “Perhaps we should bring some suit in the Name ourselves, just to test the waters.” He nodded to Mistal, who was still waiting with quiet deference. “You’re getting a reputation for quick wits, Tathel. Write me an outline argument for the D’Alse
“Very good, Master Advocate.” Mistal bowed low, but not before Temar saw elation and apprehension chasing across his face.
“It might be as well to have D’Alse
“I wish to support Ryshad,” said Temar rather more forcefully than courteous.
“A valid and worthy aim, my boy,” smiled Burquest. “But there’s no reason your actions can’t serve more than one purpose.”
Avila set down her glass. “Does that mean I can also be spared an afternoon of your eloquence?”
Burquest looked at the Sieur, who shrugged. “It would keep them all guessing if she weren’t there.”
“If you keep talking as if she were not even in the room she might well disappear all together,” snapped Avila.
Messire D’Olbriot had the grace to look abashed. “I beg your pardon. Shall I call for the coach?”
“Thank you.” Avila stood up. “No, continue pla
Temar hastily finished his drink as Burquest sent the lad ru
Avila turned her head, eyes glacial. “If I wanted pages shadowing me, I would find some pair far better trained than you.” She fixed Mistal with a piercing look. “Look after D’Alse
They reached the main courtyard to find it packed with people.
“Where did everyone come from?” Temar wondered aloud in his bewilderment.
“Court of Prerogative, Court of Estate, Court of Property, Court of Pleas.” Mistal nodded his head at different corners of the courtyard. “The various assizes are held over in the next set of halls, and the Courts of Warrant are beyond that.”
Avila sniffed. “What of a Sieur’s duty to administer justice for his own people?”
“Justice is an imperial obligation nowadays, Demoiselle.” Mistal said politely. “To leave the Sieurs free to manage all their other responsibilities.”
“You seem to have made everything u
Fortunately the D’Olbriot carriage arrived with commendable promptness. Temar saw relief to mirror his own on Mistal’s face as they watched the driver whip the horses into a brisk trot.
“My mother had an aunt like that,” Mistal remarked with feeling. “We were always glad to see the back of her.”
Loyalty prompted Temar to defend Avila. “The Demoiselle is not so stern when you get to know her.”
“That’s hardly likely. She’s a bit above my rank.” Mistal gri
“You do not seem overly awed by my rank.” Temar followed Mistal down a dingy alley way.
“You’re different.” Mistal headed for a wooden stair clinging precariously to the side of an old-fashioned building. “You’re a friend of Ryshad’s. Chewing leaf?”
“No, thank you.” Temar waved away the proffered pouch as they climbed weathered steps. “He has spoken of me?”
“Oh, yes.” Mistal rummaged in a pocket for a ring of keys. “Highly, for a wonder.”
Temar found himself smiling with unexpected pleasure as Mistal unlocked a door set in what had plainly been a window frame. The room within was small and oddly shaped where later walls had been built between the vanes of the original wooden vaults. Mistal hung his robe carefully on a hook and then pulled a chest from beneath the narrow bed with its much darned coverlet. “We’d best put your finery out of sight. Ragpickers round here would give their eye teeth to get their hands on that much silk.” He pulled out a pair of dun breeches and a long brown jerkin, throwing them on to an undersized table where stacks of books further reduced the limited surface.
Temar changed, delighted to be free of the constricting coat. Mistal dragged a faded blue jerkin over his own plain breeches and locked Temar’s elegant tailoring and borrowed jewellery safely away. He looked at Temar’s sapphire signet. “What about that ring?”
“This I always wear,” said Temar firmly. “Anyone who wants it is welcome to try taking it.”
“It’s your coin to toss.” Mistal looked a little uncertain.
“Shall we go?” Temar nodded towards the door or window, whichever it was.
“I’m hungry.” Mistal locked his door securely and led Temar down into the street. “Can you eat common food like sausage, Esquire?”
Temar laughed. “I have eaten whatever mercenaries can trap in the woods for the last year. Sausage would be a rare treat.”
“Smoked or plain?” Mistal spat the leaf he’d been chewing into the gutter before crossing the busy road. An old woman sat beneath a rack hung with sausages tied in circles, as wrinkled as if she’d been smoked over a long fire herself.
“Plain.” Temar accepted a plump sausage glistening with oil and bit into it cautiously, rewarded with a pungent mouthful redolent of pepper, savory and rue. “This is what you call plain?”
Mistal paid the woman before tearing a small loaf apart. “You’ve got to have a few spices to liven up a sausage.” He handed Temar half the bread. “Do you like it?”
Temar nodded, mouth full. Mistal’s face cleared and they both ate hungrily as they walked rapidly through the bustling city.
“This is better than wasting my time in that tedious courtroom,” Temar said with feeling.
“Enjoy your freedom while you can,” advised Mistal. “You’ll be spending long enough in the courts for the next few seasons, until those arguments are settled.”
“Me?” Temar frowned. “Messire D’Olbriot’s trials are nothing to do with me.”
“I must have misunderstood.” Mistal looked sharply at Temar. “Rysh said you weren’t stupid.”
“Then tell me what I am failing to see, Master Advocate,” retorted Temar, stung.
Mistal wiped greasy hands on the front of his jerkin. “Rysh told me about this colony of yours, said you’d been attacked from some northern islands?”