Genuinely amused, ignoring the presumption of Remy’s using his name without a title, de Talair laughed again. ‘You should never have left your studies, my dear. A little more Rhetoric would have done you a world of good. That is as false a dichotomy as ever I’ve heard.’
Remy shook his head. ‘This is the real world, no scholar’s cloudland of dreams. In the real world choices have to be made.’
Lisseut saw the duke’s amused expression change then, and even at a distance she was chilled by what succeeded it. It was as if de Talair’s tolerance had just been taken past some breaking point.
‘And are you now going to tell me,’ he said coldly to Remy of Orreze, ‘how things operate in the real world? Are you, Remy? With two Arimondans here that I can see and a table from Portezza, none of whom I know, and a Götzlander at the bar, and the goddess knows how many others upstairs in Marotte’s bedrooms … you are going to tell me that in the real world, as you choose to conceive of it, a duke of Arbonne should have let himself be dunked in a barrel of water just now? I can tolerate insolence sometimes, but I’m afraid I can’t indulge it. Think, lad. Sober up a little and use your brain.’
‘It isn’t water,’ someone said. Uneasy laughter slid through the grim stillness that had followed the duke’s words. Lisseut could see a crimson flush on the back of Remy’s neck. She looked over at Aurelian; he was gazing back at her. They exchanged a glance of shared apprehension and concern.
‘He filled the basin with Cauvas gold, my lord,’ Marotte added, bustling busily out from behind the bar now, striving to lighten the mood. ‘If you want him bloodied again I’ll be pleased to volunteer.’
‘A whole basin of Cauvas?’ En Bertran was smiling again, helping the innkeeper. ‘If that is true I may have been too hasty. Perhaps I should let myself be ducked!’ There was a gust of relieved laughter; Lisseut found herself breathing more easily. ‘Come on, Remy,’ the Duke added, ‘let me buy us a bottle while Blaise takes care of that arm he cut.’
‘Thank you, no,’ said Remy with stiff pride. Lisseut knew all about that pride; she shook her head in exasperation. ‘I’ll look after it myself.’ He paused. ‘And as it happens, I prefer drinking with other musicians during Carnival, not dukes of Arbonne.’
His head high, he turned his back on Bertran and walked across the room and through the door beside the bar towards the chambers at the rear of the inn. He went past Lisseut without even acknowledging her presence. A moment later, Aurelian offered Bertran an apologetic grimace, shrugged at Lisseut and followed Remy out, pausing to collect a pitcher of water and clean towels from Marotte.
It was all very interesting, Lisseut thought. Ten minutes before, Remy of Orreze had been utterly in command of this room, a man in his element, shaping the mood of a late afternoon at Carnival. Now he suddenly seemed to be no more than a young inebriate, his last words sounding childish more than anything else, for all the proud dignity of his exit. He would know it, too, she realized, which probably accounted for the aggrieved tone she’d heard creeping into his voice at the end.
She actually felt sorry for him, and not because of the wound, which didn’t appear to be serious. She was fully aware of how much Remy would hate knowing she felt that way. Smiling inwardly, Lisseut happily resolved to make a point of telling him later—a first measure of retaliation for her ruined tunic and trampled hat. Remy’s art might demand respect and admiration, and his manic humour and inventiveness had shaped memorable nights for all of them, but that didn’t mean there was no room for the taking of small revenges.
Looking over towards the duke, Lisseut saw the bearded Gorhaut coran glancing about the crowded room of musicians with an undisguised look of disdain on his face. She was suddenly sorry he’d been the one to wound Remy. No one should be allowed to draw a blade against a troubadour in this tavern and then wear an expression like that afterwards; particularly not a stranger, and most particularly not one from Gorhaut. Until the sun dies and the moons fall, Gorhaut and Arbonne shall not lie easily beside each other. Her grandfather used to say that, and her father had continued to use the phrase, often after returning from the Autumn Fair in Lussan with whatever profit he’d made from his olives and olive oil, trading with the northerners.
Lisseut, her anger rising, stared at the big coran from the north, wishing someone in the room would say something to him. He looked insufferably smug, gazing down on them all from his great height. Only Aurelian was as tall a man, but Aurelian had gone with Remy, and the lean musician, for all his unassuming brilliance, would not have been the man to face down this one. With a quick shrug that was more characteristic than she knew, Lisseut stepped forward herself.
‘You are arrogant,’ she said to the northerner, ‘and have no business looking so pleased with yourself. If your liege lord will not tell you as much, one of us will have to: the man you injured may have been frivolous just now in a Carnival mood, but he is twice the man you are, with or without an illegal blade, and he will be remembered in this world long after you are dust and forgotten.’
The mercenary—Blaise, the duke had called him—blinked in surprise. Up close he seemed younger than she’d first guessed, and there was actually a slightly different look in his eyes than Lisseut had thought she’d seen from by the bar. She wasn’t certain what name to put to it, but it wasn’t precisely haughtiness. Bertran de Talair was grinning, and so, unexpectedly, was Valery. Lisseut, registering their glances, was abruptly reminded that she was dripping wet from tangled hair to waist, and her new blouse was probably a dreadful sight and clinging to her much more closely that it should, in all decency. She felt herself flushing, and hoped it would be seen as anger.
‘And there you have it, Blaise,’ the duke was saying. ‘Dust and forgotten. And more proof for you—if ever you needed it—of how terrible our women are, especially after they’ve been held upside-down. What would happen to this one back in Gorhaut? Do tell us.’
For a long time the bearded coran was silent, looking down at Lisseut. His eyes were a curious hazel colour, nearly green in the lamplight. Almost reluctantly, but quite clearly, he said, ‘For speaking so to an anointed coran of the god in a public place she would be stripped to the waist and whipped on her belly and back by officers of the king. After, if she survived, the man so insulted would be entitled to do whatever he wanted with her. Her husband, if she had one, would be free to divorce her with no consequences at law or in the eyes of the clergy of Corannos.’
The silence that followed was frigid. There was something deathly in it, like ice in the far north, infinitely removed from the mood of Carnival. Until the sun dies and the moons fall…
Lisseut suddenly felt faint, her knees trembled, but she forced her eyes to hold those of the northerner. ‘What, then, are you doing here?’ she said hardily, using the voice control she’d so arduously mastered in her apprenticeship with her uncle. ‘Why don’t you go back where you can do that sort of thing to women who speak their mind or defend their friends? Where you could do whatever you wanted with me and no one would gainsay you?’
‘Yes, Blaise,’ Bertran de Talair added, still inexplicably cheerful. ‘Why don’t you go back?’
A moment later, the big man surprised Lisseut. His mouth quirked sideways in a wry smile. He shook his head. ‘I was asked by the man who pays my wages what would be done to you in Gorhaut,’ he answered mildly enough, looking straight at Lisseut, not at the duke. ‘I think En Bertran was amusing himself: he has travelled enough to know exactly what the laws on such matters are in Gorhaut, and in Valensa and Götzland, for that matter—for they are much the same. Did I say, incidentally, that I agreed with those laws?’
‘Do you agree with them?’
