Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (24 page)

XX

Rhamuel, Lerial, and Ascaar ride out of the gates of Shaelt Post slightly after fifth glass on fourday. With a damp clean cloth and a bit of order, Lerial has managed to return the uniform he wears to a semblance of being freshly washed and pressed. With them are a half squad from one of Ascaar’s battalions and two rankers from the arms-commander’s personal squad. They ride north on the river road for less than half a kay before turning westward on a wide boulevard. For a moment, Lerial thinks that the two sides of the boulevard—the one for riders, wagons, and coaches headed west, and the other for those headed east—are two separate roads too close together, rather than two halves of the boulevard separated by a wide park-like central median, complete with trees, bushes, and occasional flower beds. For the first few hundred yards, more elaborate shops with stonework facings line the boulevard, but those give way to dwellings, all with front courtyards set behind low stone walls roughly a yard and a half high, just tall enough that only a rider or someone in a coach could see over them easily.

“This is quite an elaborate boulevard,” Lerial says.

“It leads into the area where the wealthier merchanters and landowners reside,” replies Rhamuel. “I thought I’d take advantage of Graemaald’s hospitality. It will also give you a better idea of what to expect in Swartheld.”

“This may sound simpleminded,” says Lerial, “but is there any real difference between a wealthy landowner and a wealthy merchanter?”

Rhamuel laughs. “The landowners certainly think so. They claim the merchanters come and go, just like the goods they trade for.”

“And the land remains,” adds Ascaar. “Often overgrazed, overharvested, and near useless, but it remains … with what little soil has not blown away.”

“Bad landowners and inept merchants aren’t that much different.” Rhamuel smiles sardonically. “They both end up poor and blaming someone else.”

“While an ineffective Guard officer just ends up disabled or dead,” comments Ascaar.

And unfortunate or bad rulers end up even worse.
“I think you answered my question.” Lerial clears his throat. “What can you tell me about Merchanter Graemaald?”

“He is both a landowner and a merchanter,” replies Rhamuel. “He invented a device that separates the seeds from the cotton bolls. He didn’t tell anyone. Not until he bought a vast holding of land that was somewhat salty, and the rights to water from the local river. He planted cotton, and is now the largest cotton factor in Afrit.”

Lerial wonders exactly why such a wealthy factor might feel himself beholden to the arms-commander.
Unless …
“Does he supply the cloth for the Guard uniforms?”

“He does, but there are others who would feel that they should also be able to sell their cloth to the Guard.”

Will all of the merchanters at this dinner be looking for similar advantages?
Most likely, Lerial suspects.

The large dwellings become larger as the boulevard rises gradually, Then, after another kay or so, Rhamuel gestures. “There.”

The iron-grille gates on the north side of the boulevard—set into two redstone posts—are drawn back. Two guards, wearing white livery with brown leather belts, scabbards, and boots, stand in front of the gatehouse. A stone-paved lane, flanked on both sides by a trimmed juniper hedge slightly more than a yard in height, leads from the gates through a park-like setting, although Lerial does not see either gardens or flower beds. On a rise at the end of the lane stands a three-level redstone dwelling with two wings angled back from the circular main section. Lerial estimates the distance from the end of one wing to the end of the other at more than a hundred yards.

Six of the Afritan Guard rankers remain at the gatehouse, while the other four trail the arms-commander and the two officers as they ride up the stone lane. Two more liveried guards are posted at the base of the steps up to the columned entry portico, and four stableboys stand ready to lead away mounts. Rhamuel dismounts first, followed by Lerial, then Ascaar.

A burly man in shimmering white trousers and an overtunic belted in gold, with shimmering white boots, hurries forward to greet the arms-commander as Rhamuel reaches the shade at the top of the steps. “Arms-Commander! Welcome to Maaldyn!”

“Thank you. For the welcome and especially for hosting this dinner.” Rhamuel’s words are warm, as is his smile, and both are practiced, Lerial can sense. “Might I introduce you to Lord Lerial, not only the son of Duke Kiedron, but a quite accomplished overcaptain in the Mirror Lancers?”

Graemaald inclines his head, then says, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Lerial. A pleasure indeed. Come, I must show you to the terrace. Many of the guests are already here. They are anxious to meet you both.”

Lerial notices that Graemaald does not even look in Ascaar’s direction, but Rhamuel has also noticed, for he immediately says, “And this is Subcommander Ascaar, a senior battalion commander in the Afritan Guard.”

“Subcommander! Welcome!” With that, and a gesture for them to follow, Graemaald turns and walks swiftly along the center of the columns and through the open double doors into a vaulted entry hall a good ten yards wide and almost as deep, then straight back along a wide corridor floored in large shimmering white tiles. The walls are plastered in a shade of off-white that holds the faintest greenish hue.

Lerial looks into the chambers they pass, for the doors are all open. He sees a lady’s study, which adjoins a ladies’ salon. On the other side of the wide hall is a spacious library, and a study that adjoins it. Then there is what appears to be a receiving room, with a large dining chamber beyond, but Graemaald does not lead them through that archway, but through an open set of double doors out into a walled courtyard garden, filled with blooms and greenery, that stretches some twenty-five yards on aside. The archway at the rear of the courtyard leads out into an immense semicircular and roofed terrace that stretches from the outside of one wing to the outside of the other. A long table is set in the middle with white linen and shimmering cutlery, tall candelabra, crystal goblets and beakers, and porcelain chargers at each place setting.

“Refreshments before dinner are on the east side,” explains the merchanter, leading the way. “Where you can see almost all of Shaelt and the river.”

Three men are grouped farthest from the edge of the terrace, talking, although Lerial can see that one is positioned to see whoever may enter the terrace.

“A welcoming group,” Graemaald murmurs sardonically, before raising his voice. “I see you wish to greet the arms-commander and his guests. You all know the esteemed Arms-Commander Rhamuel, by name and position, if not by face. The officer in the Mirror Lancer greens is Lord Lerial of Cigoerne, and overcaptain of Mirror Lancers, and the Afritan officer is Ascaar, subcommander and senior battalion commander. These distinguished merchanters are, in turn, Kenkram, Poellyn, and Dhelamyn. I will let them provide more on themselves, or not, as they please.”

Lerial nods politely, then finds the merchanter identified as Kenkram stepping toward him.

Kenkram is a squarish man of middling height with unruly wiry reddish gray hair surmounting a round and slightly pockmarked face, with incongruously cheerful blue eyes. “So you’re the one.”

The one what?
“If you mean the one senior Mirror Lancer officer to enter Afrit in years, yes, I’m the one. Other than that…” Lerial shrugs.

“You’re also the youngest undercaptain in Hamor to command in battle. At least the youngest to command, win, and survive.”

How does he know that?
“I wouldn’t know. And neither my father nor I knew that I’d be in battle then. He needed to send a son to show good faith.”

Kenkram grins, showing a mouth full of enormous white teeth. “You’ve been an active Lancer officer ever since. Why?”

“Why not? That way I can be useful, and he can devote more time to Cigoerne.”

“Is all of your family that practical?”

Lerial shrugs again. “I’d say so. My mother and my aunt are healers, and my aunt is the head of the Hall of Healing in Cigoerne.”

“She’s the one who saved the arms-commander, isn’t she? That why you’re here?”

“No. The duke made a polite request for some Mirror Lancers to assist him in dealing with Duke Khesyn. My father decided I’d be the one to lead them.”

“Practical,” declares Kenkram.

“Speaking of practical, what do you merchant?”

“Rope and cordage, when I’m not otherwise engaged.”

“That’s an area of my education that I have to say has been neglected.” Belatedly, Lerial remembers that Kenkram is an advocate and merchants water shares.

“There are two kinds of rope. The dryland ropes we make from hemp plants. Hemp will grow almost anywhere, provided there’s enough water. The cordage for ships, the best cordage for hawsers and rigging, that comes from falana—the false banana plants.”

“They don’t grow here, do they?”

“No. We—the family—have some lands on the western edge of Afrit, where the rains come in off the Eastern Ocean. They’re near, really below, an old volcano. We draw all the ship ropes and cordage there. We’ve got a deepwater pier, and that makes it simple.”

“Why do you need two kinds of rope?”

“The hemp rope draws water inside, and you can’t tell if it’s rotten until it breaks. It’s less costly, and some shipowners still want the hemp ropes, and they’ll tar them with bitumen to keep the inside dry.” Kenkram shakes his head, and Lerial notices that not a frizzy hair on his scalp so much as moves.

“What about river traders? For their boats and ships, I mean?” Lerial finds he is interested, despite the almost offhand explanations of the merchant.

The merchanter snorts. “Hemp. They want cheap. If a line or sheet breaks, the shore isn’t that far away.”

“I understand you also are merchanter in water shares…”

“One cannot grow anything without water, but that is not really merchanting.” Kenkram shrugs. “There is so much more about rope than most realize…”

After learning more about rope than he had ever thought about, and perhaps more than he needs to know, and then about making glass from Poellyn, Lerial finally slips away, realizing that he had never discovered what Dhelamyn merchants or produces. With a rueful smile, he moves toward the edge of the terrace when a server approaches him.

“Ser, what would you like to drink?”

“A pale lager,” replies Lerial.

“Pale golden or the ice white, ser?”

“The least bitter.”

“That would be the pale golden. Just a moment, ser.”

Lerial barely has time to turn to the east toward the river and look over the stone filigreed balustrade, just over waist high, when the server returns.

“Pale golden, ser.”

“Thank you.” Lerial takes the crystal beaker, on which is cut the initial “G,” and lets his order-senses range over the lager. He detects no chaos and takes a small sip. The lager is good, but not so good as that of Rhamuel, or even the darker lager he recalls from his time at Kinaar with Majer Altyrn and Maeroja.

From where he stands, Lerial studies Shaelt, obviously built on a long and gently sloping incline above the river—or the land has been shaped into that over the years—with the more elaborate dwellings higher on the slope. He can barely see the end of the two piers, since his view of the inner sections are blocked by the dwellings below Graemaald’s villa and the warehouses and factorages just to the west of the river road.

A tall woman with shimmering black hair appears at Lerial’s side. “Good evening, Lord Lerial.”

Lerial turns and appraises her. The filmy shimmersilk head scarf she has allowed largely to slip is so sheer that it conceals nothing. She is slender and almost as tall as he is, although some of that height is doubtless from the high-heeled black boots she wears. The fine lines radiating from the corners of her black eyes and the slight creases in her forehead suggest that she is likely near the age of his aunt or mother. She embodies neither excessive order nor any chaos, and an amused smile plays across her lips. “Good evening,” he returns after a brief pause.

“I’m Shalaara. The woman merchanter that Rhamuel trots out when he wants to prove that there are women of wealth and power in Afrit. Always when his brother isn’t around, of course.”

“To that, I’d have to say that I’m Lerial, the younger son of Duke Kiedron, and the one for whom Rhamuel hosts a dinner to prove that there are other younger sons who have a nodding acquaintance with arms.” As she smiles at his words, an expression somewhere between amused and sardonic, he adds, “And why might he have to prove that there are powerful women merchanters to a mere second son in the smallest duchy in Hamor?”

“A
mere
second son? There are many who would kill their firstborn son for that position … or failing that, kill the daughters of any rivals to consort their daughter to you.”

“Then they haven’t seen Cigoerne,” Lerial replies with a laugh. “The duke’s palace is less than half the size of Graemaald’s.”

“What of yours?”

“I have two rooms there, and a single room at my post in Ensenla.” Lerial can see that, unlike many of the men who have appeared on the terrace, who clearly enjoy excessively the benefits of fine food and wine or lager, Shalaara is trim and muscular … and, for all that, likely more dangerous. “What kind of merchanting do you engage in?”

“What kind might you think?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea, only that you must be very good at it, and likely are excellent with accounts.”

Her laugh is soft and throaty, and reminds Lerial of what a mountain cat of the Westhorns might sound like, not that he has ever seen one, let alone heard one.

“You may be right about the ledgers. I began by trading in foodstuffs. There are ways to keep food good for long periods, special ways of drying, salting … and … other ways.”

“Order infusion?”

She shakes her head. “There’s too much free chaos around those who need food preserved for longer times. But … that is an interesting question. You’re Magi’i, aren’t you?”