Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (35 page)

Why hadn’t Atroyan told him that the “other function” was a ball? Why such comparatively short notice?
Because he doesn’t want you in Swartheld any longer … or to prove that he can put together something this ornate so quickly? Or to put you in the embarrassing position of being underdressed once more?

The last possibility seems unlikely, only because Lerial cannot see how that would benefit Atroyan, but the duke has to be more devious than he appears. Otherwise, how could he have survived, surrounded by merchanters such as those Lerial has already met?

By late afternoon, Lerial has walked more of the palace halls, visited the library once more, and found no trace of anything that resembles a legal codex. He has been standing at the west window, looking toward the west wing of the palace, for a good fifth of a glass when there is a knock on his door.

Who could that be?
He checks his shields, then walks to the door and opens it.

Rhamuel stands in the corridor. “Would you like to have an early dinner with me? I’ve arranged something in the family dining room. It’s not elaborate, but it’s likely to be a long evening. Mykel and Oestyn are already there. I thought you might like to meet them in a less formal setting.”

Lerial has his doubts about whether any setting in which he finds himself in Swartheld is likely to be less formal. He smiles. “I’d appreciate that. Now?”

Rhamuel nods. “Then we’ll have time to attire ourselves more suitably.”

“More suitably in my case is merely a clean uniform.”

“The ladies may find that more appealing than excessive gilt. Shall we go?”

Lerial nods and steps out into the hallway, closing the door behind himself. As they begin to walk, he says slowly, “I have to admit that I’ve been to all of a handful of balls in my entire life, and that I know only the basics of dancing … and none of the protocols or customs of an Afritan ball. Am I supposed to arrive early, on time, or slightly late? With whom am I supposed to dance? In what order?”

Rhamuel smiles. “You obviously know enough to ask the right questions.”

“Well?”

“You shouldn’t be early, but only slightly late, and you should arrive before the duke. No one dances until he and Haesychya do. Then, since you’re the second most important person there, you should ask her for the second dance … while I dance with my niece, and then we switch partners. If you had a consort, of course, Atroyan would dance with her, but since there is no one of suitable rank he will watch the second and third dances. He may reclaim Haesychya from me during the third dance. After that, you may dance with whom you please, but without obviously favoring any man’s consort.”

“What about Natroyor? Who will he dance with and when?”

“There’s no one here appropriate for him in the first three dances. After that he can dance with whomever he wishes. There will certainly be some unconsorted young women.”

“What about those unconsorted young women? How do I tell the difference?”

“How do you tell in Cigoerne?”

“Their head scarves are edged in silver.”

“That’s no different here.”

“And I presume no more than two dances in a row with the same partner, unless that partner is one’s own consort.”

“You see … you know how it works.” Rhamuel pauses. “I understand that you rode through other parts of Swartheld today.”

“We rode past the harbor and a ways north…”

“The duty rankers at Harbor Post reported seeing you.”

“It seemed to me that there weren’t many ships tied at the harbor piers. Several still in port were casting off, and I didn’t see any others coming in.”

“Sometimes that happens.”

“But if it doesn’t change…”

“You think that it means Khesyn is up to something?” asks the arms-commander almost rhetorically. “I’ve thought of that, but he may just be spreading rumors to scare off ships.That can prove costly. If they think there is likely to be war, outland merchanters won’t port in Estheld or Dolari, either.”

“Speaking of merchanters,” ventures Lerial, “I have a question about the dinner last night.”

“Only one?”

“Several, but one in particular struck me. In Shaelt, you introduced me to Fhastal, as one of the most important merchanters in Afrit…”

“But he wasn’t at table last night. You wish to know why?”

“It might be useful,” replies Lerial dryly.

“There are two reasons. First, he is a Kaordist. Second, he and Aenslem cannot stand each other.”

“But you said … Fhastal’s consorted to his daughter.”

“That doesn’t matter. His daughters are consorted to the two most powerful men in Afrit, besides himself.”

How can it not matter? And a Kaordist? A follower of the dual god/goddess?
“Is his dislike so strong because of Fhastal’s belief?”

“Partly, I suppose. Aenslem says that order and chaos just are, and to make a deity out of them is just foolish. For your information, he doesn’t believe in the Rational Stars, either.”

“If belief is only one reason…”

“The other is that Fhastal has advanced credit to several merchanters in difficulty at a time when, had they failed, Aenslem could have purchased their merchanting houses for a fraction of their worth.”

“But his daughter would benefit.”

Rhamuel shrugs. “I don’t pretend to understand.”

“He can’t have only advanced credit to those whom Aenslem wanted to buy or take over.”

“No … Fhastal has a few more—I wouldn’t call them enemies—but those less charitably inclined.”

“Who else might be foremost? Perhaps Maesoryk?”

“Why do you think that?”

“From his position at the table, he must be one of the more powerful and wealthy merchanters. He’d have the golds to do the same thing.”

“Thanks true. He’s certainly one of those who doesn’t view Fhastal as favorably as he might. He wanted to buy some timberlands west of Baiet from an old landholding family. They were heavily in debt to a countinghouse out of Estheld. Why there, I never knew. Shalaara got wind of it somehow and advanced golds so they could pay off the debts. No one else would, and she had to borrow the golds she advanced from Fhastal. Maesoryk must have wanted the lands badly. The family had already had a few spot fires, possibly camma trees, since the lands weren’t that well managed, but Maesoryk ended up buying the lands anyway. It cost him more, and he’s not forgiven either Shalaara or Fhastal.”

“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.”