“Why did she do it? Were they friends?”
Rhamuel shakes his head. “More golds. They got a quarter more than they would have, so I heard, and she got a fifth of that plus the usury charges refunded.”
In a way, Lerial has to admire Shalaara, even as he reminds himself that trusting any of the Afritan merchanters is chancy … and dangerous … as witness what happened to Valatyr … although he still has no idea which merchanter had hired the assassin … or why, except possibly to weaken Rhamuel. “Why did Maesoryk want the lands? Do you know? I thought he was into kilns and ceramics and tiles. Or did he need to provide for a younger son … or heir?”
“He’s never said, except that he thought they’d pay off in time. It couldn’t be for a younger son. He only has one. Three daughters, though. Maybe he worked out something on transport with Alaphyn. Those two are close.”
“So … one way or another, Fhastal’s credit has cost both Aenslem and Maesoryk golds, and likely resulted in Fhastal getting some of the smaller merchanting houses anyway because they couldn’t pay him?”
“He wins either way. He either gets the usury or whatever they put up to get the golds.”
“That suggests that he’s as wealthy as Aenslem.”
“He may be wealthier. He’s not as powerful. Too many people dislike him.”
Lerial nods. “Thank you. I see.” What he doesn’t see is why Rhamuel maintains a close relationship with Fhastal, or one that seems close. Keeping close to a potential enemy of the duke … or cultivating an ally not close to Atroyan and Aenslem … just in case? He does have one other question. “How does Aenslem feel about Jhosef?”
Rhamuel laughs softly and sardonically. “Not at all. Neither does Atroyan.”
“But why…?”
“Favor at table results in lower prices for the palace. Jhosef knows the feelings, but wants the position. He’ll be here this evening, although you’ll only see a brief encounter between him and Aenslem. Fhastal will be also, but he and Aenslem may not even meet. If they do meet…”
“It will be most cordial and polite.” Because neither will give the other the satisfaction of being upset or giving way to poor manners.
“Everything will be polite and cordial this evening.” Rhamuel stops outside the open door to the dining room. “There will only be the four of us eating.” Then he leads the way inside.
Two men stand near a serving sideboard on which are arrayed several platters with food, although Lerial cannot see what that might be from the other side of the chamber.
“Mykel … this is Lord Lerial. Lerial, my younger brother Mykel.”
For some reason, Lerial has pictured Mykel as slight, almost feminine, but the youngest of the three brothers is barrel-chested and broad-shouldered, with an open smile and the same warm brown eyes and hair as Rhamuel. He is perhaps a digit or so taller than his older brother, and definitely taller than the duke. His face is smooth-shaven and youthful, suggesting he is one of those men who look youthful until they suddenly age, although Lerial doubts Mykel is more than fifteen years older than Lerial himself, at the most. He also carries more of the black of order than most people, almost enough that he might have some slight order-handling skills.
Mykel inclines his head and says, “I’m very pleased to meet you. Rham has spoken of you most favorably, particularly of your prowess with arms.” He shakes his head self-deprecatingly. “Much to our sire’s regret, and that of my brothers, I have proved less than adept with any form of weapon.”
“But he is most skilled with a paintbrush,” says Rhamuel. “The fellow with him is Oestyn, the youngest son of merchanter Jhosef, whom you met the other night…”
“The largest merchanter in dairy and cheese and related goods?”
“The very same,” replies Oestyn. “The uncoroneted deity of all things caprine and bovine, and, of course, dried mutton, the staple of the crafter and peasant. He is a great supporter of what he calls natural.” Oestyn is slightly shorter than any of the others, and more slender, if muscular, with bright green eyes and short but curly blond hair.
“We have wine and lager, and the food on the sideboard,” announces Mykel, “thanks to Rham’s persuasiveness with the palace cooks. And some excellent provisions from Oestyn’s sire.”
Oestyn murmurs something into Mykel’s ear.
“As the honored guest, Lord Lerial, perhaps you would begin,” Mykel goes on.
“‘Lerial,’ please, except where required by custom and ceremony.” Lerial cannot say what prompts his qualification, other than perhaps Oestyn’s description of his father, and he quickly adds, “Certainly not here.” He takes one of the large plates stacked at one end of the sideboard and moves toward the platters. He pauses, looking at the platters. He recognizes the rice as the same kind that had been truffled at the dinner the night before, but it has been prepared with mushrooms and a butter sauce. There are also new green beans with slivered almonds, and slices of fowl with a tannish sauce. He does not recognize the last dish—some sort of shredded meat with a pale green sauce.
His hesitation must have been noted, because Oestyn says, “The last dish is shredded pork with green saffron. It’s an Atlan dish and very spicy.”
Lerial serves himself a small portion, then adds more of the rice, after which he pours himself a beaker of light lager. When he turns back to the table, he sees that four places have been set, two on each side of one end of the table. He lets Rhamuel take a seat, and then sits across from him, leaving Mykel to sit beside him, and Oestyn, who sits down last, beside Rhamuel.
“No toasts, no formality,” says Rhamuel.
Mykel nods.
“I hadn’t heard that you were here in Swartheld at present,” Lerial says, looking to Mykel.
“Not for long. We’ll be leaving for Lake Reomer early tomorrow morning,” Mykel replies. “We’re staying because Oestyn likes the music at the balls. So do I, but that’s because he’s taught me about it.”
“Music was not to be studied in the palace, not by sons, at least, and since Father had no daughters … there was little music,” explains Rhamuel.
“And not verse, either?” suggests Lerial after taking a swallow of the lager.
“Verse was worse,” declares Mykel. “As bad as marionettes and puppetry.” A certain irony infuses his last phrase.
“Yet,” says Oestyn with knowing smile,
“When words spoken come from the soul,
All praise to the man who is whole.”
“That’s from Maorym,” says Mykel. “He’s one of the best poets in Afrit, indeed in all Hamor. The lines of his that I like best are these:
“Fair words, like trees, must seek receptive ground,
For logic’s chill is worse than stony ground.”
“But then, Father wouldn’t have understood that, would he?” With the question, Mykel looks not to Rhamuel, but to Oestyn.
“From what you’ve said…” demurs Oestyn gently.
“Did you study verse and the great poets of Cyador?” Mykel asks Lerial.
“My father is not the greatest enthusiast of verse,” replies Lerial, and that is an understatement, “but I have read some of the old Cyadoran verse.” Rather than say more, Lerial takes a small bite of the Atlan pork, followed by some of the rice.
“Can you quote any?”
His mouth full, Lerial shakes his head.
“That’s too bad. I’d hoped…”
“Some of us have been trained in skills that allow others the liberty of writing and enjoying verse,” Rhamuel says dryly.
“What else have you studied?” presses Mykel.
Lerial finishes what he is eating, then takes a swallow of the lager before replying, since the Atlan pork is not so much spicy as throat-searing and nose-burning, small as the mouthful he took had been. Finally, he speaks. “History, geography, practical mathematics, grammar and logic, the basics of engineering. Later on, with Majer Altyrn, I learned about strategy, tactics, and maps … And
… of course, blades.”
“The education of an officer,” says Oestyn blandly.
“You should be glad of it,” Rhamuel responds. “He kept Luba from suffering great destruction.”
“No great loss,” sniffs Mykel.
Oestyn nods, if only slightly.
Lerial understands that the purpose of the dinner is not just to make sure he is fed. Even so, he is hungry, and he takes a bite of the more succulent fowl, a far larger bite, and far more to his taste, he discovers.
“Perhaps not to the builders of poetic epics,” says Rhamuel, “but that damage would have resulted in reduced tariffs … and you know how the duke would have felt about that.”
The duke? Very interesting. Rhamuel’s choice of words in what is almost a family dinner is most suggestive.
“He’d use it to cut my stipend. You don’t have to remind me, Rham.”
“Sometimes, I do.” The arms-commander’s words are gentle.
“You’d think verse and painting were an offense against the laws.”
“Just a privilege allowed by the laws,” Lerial finds himself saying, “and made possible by those who defend them.”
“Lerial … you sound like my brother here. No wonder he likes you.”
“We share many similarities.” Lerial makes his words both light and wry.
Oestyn smiles, but Lerial finds the expression both defensive and somehow predatory.
“Are you here to court my niece?” asks Mykel.
“Not that I know of,” replies Lerial. “I was invited by your brother, and according to his invitation, it was because I rendered some assistance to Afrit against Duke Khesyn.”
“The barbarian of Heldya,” sniffs Oestyn. “He pursues anything with a head scarf, especially those close to him or his favorite merchanters, and if his pursuit is not successful, then those merchanters fall out of favor … and sometimes permanently out of sight. Some men can be so…”
“Uncultured?” suggests Lerial.
“Precisely,” agrees Oestyn.
“Khesyn wouldn’t know a verse if it paraded before him wearing nothing but a head scarf,” adds Mykel.
“Especially if it wore nothing but a head scarf,” corrects Oestyn.
“I understand you also paint,” Lerial says, trying not to hurry, but definitely wanting to change the subject.
“Mykel is quite adept with pastels,” says Rhamuel. “He did a beautiful portrait of Kyedra.”
“It was one of my best,” admits Mykel. “I don’t do many portraits. I prefer landscapes. There’s a beautiful scene at the lake…”
Less than a third of a glass later, Rhamuel clears his throat and rises. “I’m glad we could get together, but I have several matters to attend to before tonight’s entertainment, and I believe Lerial does as well.”
“Unfortunately, I do.” Lerial stands. “I do appreciate the chance to meet both of you. I assume you will be at the ball.”
“We will be,” replies Mykel. “Oestyn and I wouldn’t wish to displease our brother the duke.”
“Then I’m sure we will see each other there.” Lerial inclines his head politely, then leaves with Rhamuel.
Neither man speaks until they are well away from the dining room.
“I thought you should hear what Mykel has to say in less formal circumstances.”
Lerial isn’t quite sure what to say, but finally manages, “He’s not quite what I’d thought. After meeting everyone else, I’d expected someone … less robust-looking.”
“Oh … for all his love of painting and verse, he’s an excellent rider, and he’s swum across Lake Reomer any number of times. He could be good with a blade. He’s actually rather accomplished with a staff, but he says blades make him ill.”
They might at that. Lerial just nods and says, “I’ve heard that edged weapons, even knives, can do that to some people.”
“It’s a good thing you and I don’t have that problem.” Rhamuel stops at the foot of the staircase. “I’ll see you tonight. I do have to check and see if there are any dispatches.”
“Until then.”
Lerial makes his way back to his quarters at a measured pace, thinking. He is more than a little confused by Mykel. While he can understand Mykel’s inclinations, he wonders why the youngest brother is so outspoken, when both Rhamuel and Atroyan are so much more cautious in their language. Does he really feel that way … or is it a way of removing himself from any consideration as a successor to Atroyan? And then there was the remark about puppetry, offhand, and yet said ironically. Because he feels his father made him feel like a marionette on strings? One thing continues to remain true, and that is that nothing in Swartheld is quite what it seems to be, or that what it seems to be is far from all that it is.
Once he is back at his rooms, he immediately checks with Polidaar, but there are no messages or problems. So, after washing up and donning one of his newly cleaned uniforms, Lerial departs from his quarters. He takes a narrow staircase in the middle of the palace, well away from the duke’s personal quarters, to head up to the fourth level, which, for some reason, is where the Crimson Ballroom is located, on the southwest end of the west wing of the palace. As he walks up the steps, he raises a concealment, only after letting his order-senses let him know when no one is near the stairway door. Then he continues to the west wing, where he positions himself outside the vaulted arch leading into the ballroom. From what he can tell, it is about a third before seventh glass when he arrives. There are already a number of people in the ballroom. That, he can sense. He can also hear the musicians playing, but a slow melody unsuited to dancing.
A couple arrives, and they are greeted by Dafaal, at least, from the voice and posture, Lerial believes that to be the functionary.
“Minister Cyphret … welcome to the ball.”
Behind them is another couple, and several others are walking toward the ballroom from the top of the grand staircase. Others seem to be standing around the top of the staircase. Lerial eases along the side of the corridor back toward the staircase, where he takes up a position behind one of the ornate stone balustrades that curve away from the top of the steps and all the way around the balcony overlooking the staircase. From there he hopes to overhear what at least some of the people might say.
“… ridiculous … climbing three flights of steps to a ballroom…”
“… there’s more of a breeze up here … cooler…”
“… nuisance … don’t care if he owes something to the young heir of Cigoerne…”
“… yes, dear … you look wonderful … and we’re only a bit early. I’m only a subcommander, and that means I mustn’t be late…”
Lerial wonders who the officer is, because his voice is unfamiliar … but then with close to ten battalions in and around Swartheld, there have to be at least several senior officers that he has not met.
“… said to be young and ruthless in battle…”
“… so bad about that in dealing with that barbarian from Heldya?”
He can also sense that the women all wear ankle-length dresses or gowns, the first time he has seen that in Swartheld, but it would have been the same in Cigoerne.
“… just like the duke … ball with little notice … have to come…”
“… you like being invited … don’t complain … be far worse if you weren’t…”
While Lerial has hoped to glean at least some passing information, he only hears what he had already half expected to hear, and at just slightly before seventh glass, he slips to the side of the corridor almost in a corner and drops the concealment, then follows a white-haired couple—something he can see since the woman has let her head scarf drop into a filmy shawl.
Once Dafaal ushers the older pair into the ballroom, he turns to Lerial. “If you would wait just a moment, ser,” says Dafaal. “You and the duke must be announced.”
“Whatever is necessary,” replies Lerial.
A young-faced but gray-haired man with a younger wom
an approaches.
“Minister Dohaan, Lady…” offers Dafaal before Lerial can step back, “since you are both here, might I present you to Lord Lerial.”
Dohaan? Oh … the minister for roads and harbors.
“A pleasure to meet you, Lord Lerial.” Dohaan smiles politely and inclines his head.
His consort merely inclines her head, letting the head scarf slip off her black hair and around her shoulders, permissible inside and at a ball.
“And I’m pleased to meet the minister responsible for highways and harbors, especially since we have no harbors whatsoever … and to see you, Lady.”
As Dohaan and his consort pass, Dafaal looks back along the corridor, then smiles. “Here comes the duke.”
Lerial catches sight of Atroyan and Haesychya, flanked by a pair of palace guards. Atroyan wears a crimson dress uniform, trimmed in gold, but one somewhat different from the one he had worn the evening before. Haesychya wears a silver-streaked deep purple silk that flows yet suggests a still-youthful figure. Her head scarf is not even over her hair, but is draped loosely around her neck. Behind them are Natroyor and Kyedra.
“You’ll be announced first. Just walk to the dais that holds the musicians,” says Dafaal, then turn and wait for the duke and his lady.
“And once he’s there, he starts the dancing?”
“More or less,” interjects Rhamuel, who has approached from the staircase, rather than from the side corridor used by Atroyan and Haesychya.
Atroyan smiles pleasantly as he nears, then looks to Dafaal.
“All is ready, ser.”
“Then we should proceed.”
Dafaal steps into the chamber and waits for a moment. The musicians stop playing. Then a hornist steps forward and plays a short fanfare.
“The honorable Lord Lerial, overcaptain of the Mirror Lancers of Cigoerne.”
As he enters the Crimson Ballroom, Lerial is aware that most, but not all, of those gathered have turned in his direction. He walks deliberately, trying not to hurry, but not to be unduly and solemnly slow. His eyes take in the musicians on the dais, most of whom appear to be holding largely stringed instruments ranging from violin to cello, with the exception of two horns and a flute. When he reaches a spot below the dais, he stops and turns.
Heritage of Cyador Page 28
