Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (34 page)

“Lord Lerial,” Maesoryk offers warmly, but not obsequiously or loudly, “it is a pleasure to meet you. It’s good to know that Cigoerne understands the dangers posed by Duke Khesyn … and that Afrit and Cigoerne can stand against him.” The merchanter’s smile is modest, but seemingly open, and his warm brown eyes match his mouth.

“It’s very much in Cigoerne’s interest that Afrit prevail in any struggle with Heldya,” replies Lerial. “My father has been quite clear about that.”

“He’s always shown he has good sense. So did the empress. I regret that I never met her and that I was absent from Swartheld during the brief time your father was here. But then, we were both rather young then.” He laughs jovially. “Enjoy your youth. It departs more quickly than you’ll ever have thought possible.”

In some ways, it already has.
“I appreciate your thoughts on that. I’d like to say more … but I’m afraid that, if I do, I’ll reveal too much that I don’t know.”

From beside Lerial, Aenslem guffaws, then says, “How do you like that, Maesoryk?”

“He says it better than I could have when I was his age … and certainly better than I can now.”

“If I pretend to believe that,” replies Aenslem in a genially rough voice, “will you give me a better break on the next consignment of amphorae?”

“I’ll pretend to.”

Lerial cannot help but smile, as does Rhamuel, if ironically. Atroyan maintains a pleasant expression, not quite a smile.

“Well then, I’ll pretend to give you a break on shipping that gray clay you want from Atla.”

“For what you charge, you should be shipping it from Nordla or Spidlar.”

Despite the genial bantering, Lerial can sense the undercurrents that are anything but friendly.

“So what do you think of them all now, Lord Lerial?” asks Lhugar dryly.

“We’re all friends. It’s all in jest,” replies Maesoryk in his warm and winning voice. “How else dare we make our points?”

There’s some truth in that.
“Better with friendly barbed words than barbed iron,” Lerial comments, dryly, adding after the slightest pause, “or chaos and blades.” The only one who reacts is the merchanter he does not know, who shakes his head, just slightly and almost sadly.

“Jhosef doesn’t much care for chaos. It curdles his milk, his cheeses,” says Atroyan.

“And everything else,” adds Jhosef. “Taints beef and mutton, too. Don’t care much for the tainted.”

For just an instant, Lerial thinks, the corners of Aenslem’s mouth almost curl into a sneer, while a faint hint of an ironic smile appears momentarily on Rhamuel’s lips.

From the comments, Lerial has gained the impression that practically all types of goods produced or traded in Swartheld, and many services, such as shipping, are controlled by one or two family trading houses. The only merchanting house in Cigoerne to compare with that, so far as Lerial knows, is Myrapol … and Veraan would certainly fit in with those around the table.

“Chaos is bad for almost anything in trade,” Maesoryk points out.

Even Aenslem nods to that. Rhamuel offers an enigmatic smile.

“Here comes dinner,” announces Atroyan.

Each diner is served half a small game hen, deeply browned, so that the skin is crispy, garnished with sliced honeyed pearapples, and accompanied with what Lerial guesses must be truffled rice, but a kind he has never seen before.

“Pearapples, no less,” declares Jhosef. “How did you come by those at this time of year?”

Atroyan grins and looks to Aenslem. “I have my sources. They know some traders from Merowey who infuse the pearapples with a honey liqueur that preserves them.”

“Quite good,” declares Jhosef.

Lerial thinks so as well, although his first bite of the unfamiliar rice is small, because he does not know what to expect, but he finds it tasty, although a touch saltier than he would ideally like. He is happy to eat and listen as the others talk about how to keep chaos out of goods, ships, warehouses, and the like.

“You’ve not said much, Lord Lerial,” says Maesoryk after a time.

“It’s more interesting to listen. Besides, what little I know deals with weapons and battle. Those are scarcely suited to such a meal, or those attending.”

“Will you follow the path of the duke’s brother and become the arms-commander of Cigoerne?” asks Maesoryk.

“That is a position my father holds. So long as he is duke that is his decision. When my brother becomes duke, and we both hope that is not any time soon, it will be his decision.”

“You’re sounding more like a merchanter than a man of arms,” comments Maesoryk.

“That might be because the best of both know when not to exceed their knowledge,” adds Aenslem in his deep rough voice. “Or to reveal what is not to their advantage. Tell me, Maesoryk, how much profit do you make on each amphora or each roof tile. Surely you know, down to the last portion of a copper.”

“Your point is well taken.” Maesoryk laughs genially. “Enough, or I wouldn’t be here. The same is true of all of us, save the three at the head of the table.”

“And we would not be here without the success of the merchanters in our respective duchies,” adds Lerial.

“That makes an excellent point to change the conversation to a subject I’d appreciate,” declares Atroyan, raising his voice and looking down the table. “Since we have Mesphaes here, and we seldom do, I’d like his opinion on the best wines.”

“Best, Your Grace, is often a matter of debate, and I will be pleased to give you my opinions in a moment.” The spirits merchant smiles. “I would say first, that more of the honored merchanters here at the table prefer red wines to white, and that the two red wines that most prefer are the better vintages of the Reoman or the Chalbec. The two whites that are most preferred are the Halyn and the Vhanyt. Personally, I prefer the cask-aged Reoman and the reserve Vhanyt.”

“You didn’t express a preference for the Reoman or the Vhanyt,” Atroyan points out.

“My preference is for the Reoman with beef and mutton, and the Vhanyt with fish and fowl. Because I do not like to switch from red to white, or the other way, I prefer to begin my evening refreshment with whichever fits the meal. I will, of course, take either of my favorites over a noticeably inferior vintage … if I have the choice. If I don’t, I will enjoy the best of what is available.”

Lerial cannot but note that Mesphaes has picked Atroyan’s favorite red … and not the white apparently favored by Rhamuel.

“What about the Cyandran white?” asks Lhugar.

“Or the amber Noorn?” suggests Jhosef.

“That’s a wine so perfumed with peach that it’s what merchanters’ press-gangs prefer,” declares Aenslem.

“They add sleeping draughts to it in low inns and taverns so as to drug unsuspecting young men and press them into ship’s crews,” explains Rhamuel quietly in response to Lerial’s raised eyebrows.

“Good Noorn is too dear for that,” counters Jhosef.

“What about the golden Chelios?” asks someone farther down the table.

While Lerial does not exactly relax, he is far more comfortable as the discussion of the various vintages proceeds, and trusts that the rest of the dinner will continue in the same pleasant but only marginally informative fashion.

XXV

On threeday morning, before leaving for breakfast, Lerial turns over his most soiled uniforms to one of the palace staff, a youth barely grown, and proceeds to the family dining room, where he breakfasts by himself, since Rhamuel is nowhere to be found. Because the arms-commander was thoughtful enough to leave five of his personal squad, they serve as escorts when Lerial and his half squad set out for the headquarters post once more, taking a circuitous route heading southwest of the palace and then circling back to the shore road before riding north to Afritan Guard headquarters.

Although Lerial is getting a better feel for Swartheld each day, he cannot say that increasing familiarity is leading to a greater appreciation of the city, for all of what is for sale. He is reminded of the array of what is indeed for sale when, on one of the less-frequented streets, they ride past a building that displays open windows with both men and women in filmy garments that leave almost nothing to the imagination, and some of those “men” and “women” look to be barely out of childhood. Lerial cannot repress a shudder.

Everything, indeed, is for sale.

Once Lerial reaches Swartheld Post, he inquires, almost offhandedly, as to whether the arms-commander has arrived, only to learn that Rhamuel arrived early and soon departed for the Harbor Post. Lerial needs little time with his officers—less than a glass—and is soon ready for another and longer exploratory ride around the city before returning to the palace. He thinks about taking a very long route back to the palace, one that winds up the merchanters’ road and back, but decides that would serve no purpose but to satisfy his own curiosity, and might well create problems without improving his understanding and knowledge of Swartheld. Instead, he decides on taking the shore road north.

As he and his combined squad ride out of the old post and head north, Lerial can see that one of the cafés that had been closed in the morning on previous days is now open. He turns and looks back, grinning, at Strauxyn, who rides beside Fheldar. “I see you’ve encouraged one of the cafés to stay open.”

“Yes, ser. They have good pastries. We didn’t see any harm in sending a ranker or two over and suggesting they might earn a little more if they opened earlier.”

“And you’re giving the men breaks to enjoy those pastries.”

“Yes, ser. They can’t go alone, though.”

“Good thought.”

“The permanent cadre at the post are enjoying that, too, ser,” adds Jhacub.

Just beyond the open café, Lerial notices a modest cloth factorage, but he does not see any shimmersilk on display.
Too dear?
The prices he had overheard his father, Altyrn, and Maeroja mentioning to him years earlier suggest that few cloth merchants might carry the shimmersilk.
Or perhaps they simply fear displaying it?

When they pass the harbor piers, Lerial cannot help but notice that there are less than half a score of ships tied there, the fewest he has seen in the days since he arrived in Swartheld. Not only that, but several of those at the piers appear to be making preparations to cast off. Is it because the masters of the departed vessels have seen something, either at Estheld or on the river? Or something else? That possibility concerns him.
You need to keep watch on that.

That part of the shore road that runs northwest across the base of the broad point or peninsula on which the harbor fort is located affords a gentle slope, one that is not too taxing on mounts and one that would not be that difficult for wagons. Beyond the point, the road swings closer to the shore, but is a good two hundred yards back from the water and a good five yards higher.

After riding another kay and seeing nothing of great interest, just small plots of land and cots, pastures, and scattered small woodlots, Lerial is about to order a return to Swartheld proper when he sees what looks to be a small harbor in the distance to the north, possibly five kays or more away, with buildings and a mound of some sort behind them. Smoke rises from one of the structures. “I thought there weren’t any harbors between here and Baiet.”

“There aren’t, ser,” replies Jhacub.

“What’s that up there in the distance with the pier?”

“That’s the tileworks … well, I guess they make more than tiles there.”

“Do you know which merchanter?”

“No, ser.”

Lerial would be willing to wager that the owner is Maesoryk, but he supposes it doesn’t make any difference where Maesoryk’s kilns are located, except it makes sense that they’re near where there’s clay and a river or the shore. Shipping by water is far cheaper, especially for heavy goods that aren’t that high in value for their weight.

When Lerial finally returns to the palace, after circling to the west once past the road to the merchanters’ hill and taking in another, more modest area of Swartheld, where there are a profusion of small shops producing various kinds of cotton and muslin cloth, among other goods, it is slightly past third glass of the afternoon. Once back in his rooms, he finds not only clean uniforms carefully hung in the armoire in the bedroom, but an envelope on the writing desk. On the outside are two lines in ornate script:

Lerial opens it and reads the same ornate script on a simple heavy white card.