Again, as happened every time he approached Leyladin’s house, he found his eyes taking in the four large arched windows across the front of the imposing dwelling, each window comprised of dozens of diamond-shaped glass panes set in lead, each pane sparkling. He didn’t have to knock. Before he could lift the bronze knocker, the door opened.
“I’m glad you’re here.” The blonde healer smiled.
Cerryl smiled back. “So am I.” He followed her through the silk-hung entry hall, through the orange-scented air of the long sitting room past the portrait of Leyladin’s mother, and back into the red oak paneled study where Cerryl had first met Leyladin’s father.
Layel stood up behind his desk as Cerryl entered. “Good evening, Cerryl. And a good evening it is this day.”
“Yes, it is.” Cerryl’s eyes slipped toward Leyladin.
“Well… best we eat.” Layel gestured, and the three headed into the adjoining dining hall.
Again the long white golden oak table that could have easily contained a score was set but for the three at the end nearest the door to the kitchen. The lamps were already lit, although the orange light of sunset still filled the room.
“Meridis…”
“I be here, and so is the soup.” The gray-haired cook and server carried a white porcelain tureen out and set it on the corner of the table. “Now be seating yourself afore this gets cold.”
Layel gestured and waited for Leyladin to sit. He and Cerryl sat nearly simultaneously.
Then, as Meridis ladled soup into the white china bowls, Layel poured a clear white wine from the big bottle into the three fluted crystal goblets.
The soup was almost a mustard brown, but tangy and certainly with no taste of the hot spice. Cerryl used the big spoon gingerly, then took another spoonful and one after that. “A good soup… what is it?”
“A pumpkin gourd soup.” Leyladin extended the porcelain bread platter.
Cerryl took a chunk of the golden-crusted white bread.
“One of Meridis’s many specialties,” Leyladin added.
“She has so many that they cannot be termed specialties.” Layel smiled at Meridis, who lifted the tureen and headed back to the kitchen.
Some time later, Cerryl looked up and found he had finished the soup and his bread without speaking.
“Patrol duty must be famishing.”
“That and studying for Patrol duty. There is more to it than I had realized.” Cerryl laughed. “I have found that to be true of everything I have done.”
Layel added a laugh. “True it will be of anything of worth that you or I ever do.”
“What about me?” Leyladin asked in a tone of mock demureness.
“Daughter, since you were born, there has always been more to you and what you do than meets the eye. Why would that change now?” Layel offered a sorrowful look.
Cerryl grinned.
Leyladin turned to him with the same demure expression. “You find that amusing, ser White mage?”
“No, Lady Leyladin… merely true. You set me back the first time I saw you, and nothing has changed.”
A hearty belly laugh issued from Layel. “He knows you, Daughter. Indeed he does.”
Leyladin offered a mock grimace, then smoothed her face back into demureness. “Alas, I am surrounded. Does not anyone understand my plight?”
Cerryl shook his head.
The gray-haired server returned to remove the soup bowls, then delivered three large platters - one with four fowl halves, each covered in an orange glaze; one with sliced potatoes covered with a white sauce; and the third with long slivers of what appeared to be roots covered in the white sauce.
“You didn’t fix quilla?” Leyladin glanced from Meridis to her father.
“I do happen to like it, Daughter.”
“It tastes like sawdust.” The blonde grimaced.
“Then I like sawdust,” replied the trader.
After the momentary silence, Layel served himself one of the fowl halves, then some of the potatoes and a heaping helping of quilla. He passed the last platter to Cerryl. “I was at the seasonal auction today. The one at the Patrol building.”
Cerryl nodded and served himself fowl and potatoes and just a few slices of the smothered quilla.
“Did you bid on anything?” Leyladin took the fowl platter from Cerryl.
“I bid - and purchased - some rare oils and essences. Five golds and I got nearly a score of bottles of oil. Some fool had tried to smuggle them past the gates in a wagon with a false bottom.” Layel smiled. “The gate guards are getting better, I think. That trick used to work.”
“This was the auction of goods taken by the guards?” Cerryl took a sip of the fruit-tinged wine.
“Yes. They have one just before each season turn.” Layel refilled his goblet. “I always go, if only to see what goods are so dear that they must be smuggled. I was taken by the clarity and perfection of these oils, though, and since none seemed to recognize their value…” The merchant shrugged. “Even with a gold’s tax on my bid, I stand to triple my investment.”
“What else was so dear,” Cerryl asked, “that it was smuggled? I mean, that usually isn’t?”
“That you can never tell. At the auction, there were the usual oddments-woven willow baskets, two barrels of soft wheat flour, three second-class hand - and - a - half blades, twoscore wool and linen carpets from Hamor… I bid on those, but Muneat’s fellow took them. At what he bid, he can have them. Chorast didn’t show. Usually he doesn’t. Loboll sat there, didn’t bid but once.” Layel shoveled a mouthful of quilla down.
Leyladin winced almost imperceptibly.
Cerryl cut a small slice of the quilla and chewed, swallowing quickly after deciding that Leyladin was right-the quilla tasted even less appetizing than sawmill sawdust, more like sawdust mixed with axle grease. He’d inadvertently tasted enough of sawdust as a youth. He reached for the wine, ignoring the faint knowing smile that crossed her lips.
“Good stuff, quilla,” Layel proclaimed. “You don’t know what you’re missing, dear.” He speared the second half-fowl and transferred it to his plate.
“I’m quite happy not knowing.” The healer cut a slice of the fowl.
“How do you find Patrol duty?” The factor took a healthy slice of fowl, then dipped it in glaze before eating.
“I’m not really on duty yet, not for a few more days. I’m still learning about the southeastern section of
Fairhaven.”
“That’s where all the little smugglers are-tin, pigments, copper. Why, if you mages could tax them, you’d get half the coins you’d need for the roads.”
Cerryl doubted that, but he nodded politely. “Everything seems quiet. Even the
Market Square
has fewer carts, and they leave early.”
“That is true in late summer, every year, almost until harvest. Then there will be peddlers everywhere,” predicted Leyladin, “but it will be quiet until then.”
“Some of the factors have not been so quiet in recent days past,” Layel volunteered. “Scerzet said that he would run any Spidlarian trader off the road, were any to cross his path.”
“Oh?” Cerryl frowned.
“ ‘Tis simple. The Spidlarians-they do not lower their prices for wares. They match ours and then go a copper or two lower.”
“They’re actually pocketing extra coins in the amount that the tariffs raise your prices. Or just a few coppers less than that.”
“So simple that a new-minted junior mage can see it.” Layel beamed. “No matter how much we lower prices, they always can match our prices and make more coins.”
“Do you think the Gallosians are encouraging them?” asked Leyladin.
“No, Daughter. The Gallosians, like all people, think of themselves. They will buy where they can buy the best quality for the fewest coins. Unless the White mages”-he inclined his head toward Cerryl-“unless they either force the Gallosians to pay more for goods traded through Spidlar or forbid their sale at all in Gallos, the Gallosians, as will all in Candar, will buy where they can most cheaply.”
Cerryl could see more than a few problems.
As if anticipating Cerryl’s thoughts, Layel continued, “Once goods are unloaded from a ship, to ensure all tariffs are paid is like catching smoke after it has left the chimney.”
“The traders would not support a war against Gallos and Spidlar, would they?”
Layel shrugged. “Some, like the grain factors, see no difficulties. Recluce does not ship grain, and Austran grain is more dear than any grown in Candar. Nor is maize a problem. The wool factors would pay for war tomorrow-if not with many coins. So would the oilseed growers-those outside of the lowlands of Certis. The metals factors and, so I am told, the Duke of Lydiar are most wroth at the copper shipped from
Southport.”
In short, it’s like everything else… with no really clear answers. Cerryl nodded.
“Few choices are there-to take either the city of
Elparta or all of Spidlar… or see trade suffer and revenues for
Fairhaven fall.”
“Elparta?” Cerryl asked involuntarily.
“Aye… most of the trade to Gallos comes up the river to Elparta. Some goes to Certis through Axalt, but the pass beyond Axalt is narrow and can be patrolled, if need be. So, if the lancers took Elparta… then the surtaxes could be levied there.”
“That would be somewhat difficult without the agreement of the prefect or the viscount and those of Axalt.” Leyladin’s tone was dry. “We would have to send lancers through the greater breadth of Gallos, or through Certis and Axalt.”
Layel shrugged. “It will come to such. Not this year, but it will.”
“Why do you think that?” asked Cerryl.
“The prefect will not oppose the Guild, not openly. But he will not send hordes of his own armsmen to collect our taxes, even though his own people gain vast sums of coin from the White highways. The Spidlarian traders will not impose or pay the tax, and they will sell where they can. The regular tax for them is half what it is for us. The only truly high taxes are the surtaxes, and yet they complain and complain.”
“So we will have a war over taxes?”
“No. We will have a war over trade. That has always been the basis of war with Recluce. They can travel the seas more cheaply than we can build and travel the roads. And their magics allow them to create some goods more cheaply.”
“Enough of this talk of war,” Leyladin said abruptly. “If it comes, then we can talk of it. I’d rather talk even of wool carding and dyeing.” She glanced at her father. “Or Aunt Kasia’s tatwork and embroidery.”
Cerryl smiled sheepishly. So did Layel.
“Who is your Aunt Kasia?” Cerryl finally asked, after enjoying several mouthfuls of the cheese - and - sauce - covered potatoes.
“Mother’s youngest sister. She consorted with a landholder near Weevett. I spent a summer there, and she insisted that I learn the ladylike skills of tatting and embroidering. ‘After all, dear, your children should be well turned out, and you should know how to teach them needle-and yarn work. All those coins your father has amassed may not last.’”
Cerryl found himself grinning at the blonde’s mimicry of her aunt.
“It was a very long summer,” Leyladin said dryly.
“What about your aunt?” asked Layel, looking at Cerryl. “She raised you, I understand.”
“Aunt Nail?” Cerryl paused, then said slowly, “She wanted the best for me, but she didn’t want me to be a mage. There wasn’t a glass or a mirror in the house. She was always telling me that glasses were only for the high - and - mighty types of
Fairhaven.” His lips quirked as he lifted his goblet. “I feel far less than high - and - mighty.”
“Would that more of ‘em in the Halls felt that way. Much they’ve done for Candar and the city, but just folk with mighty skills-that’s all they are.” Layel lifted the leg-the sole remnant of fowl on his plate-and chewed on it.
Folk with mighty skills? Cerryl half-smiled at the thought, knowing that the very words would upset both Anya and Jeslek… and amuse Kinowin.
After the three finished, Meridis cleared away the china and returned with three dishes of a lumpy puddinglike dish.
“Bread pudding… good…” Layel smiled.
Leyladin took a small morsel of the pudding, then laid her spoon aside.
Cerryl took one modest mouthful-enjoying the combination of spices with the richness of the creamed and sweetened bread. Then he had another.
“See; even the White mages like bread pudding,” Layel announced after his last mouthful.
“Not all mages,” countered Leyladin. “It’s too sweet for this one.”
“I do have a fondness for sweets,” Cerryl confessed, then blushed as he saw Leyladin flush.
“I have noticed,” added Layel.
Leyladin shook her head. “You… you two.”
Cerryl took the last bite of the pudding, trying not to look at her. “It is good.”
“Next time, Daughter, you may pick the dessert, but occasionally your sire should have a choice.”
“Yes, Father.”
Contentedly full and relaxed, Cerryl found himself yawning, and he closed his mouth quickly.
“I saw that,” Leyladin said. “When do you get up?”
“Before dawn,” he admitted.
She glanced toward the window and the pitch-darkness beyond the lead-bordered glass diamonds. “You need to go.”
“I suppose so.”
“I am sure you will be back many times, Cerryl,” said Layel, rising with Leyladin. “My daughter much prefers your company to mine.”
“She has spoken quite well of your company,” Cerryl managed as he rose from the velvet-upholstered white oak chair. “Often.”
“Would that she did around me.” Layel still smiled fondly at his daughter.
“Oh, Father…”
“See your mage off, dear.”
Leyladin escorted Cerryl back through the silk-hung sitting room and front hall to the foyer. She opened the door.
“Thank you. The dinner was wonderful,” Cerryl said. “And I did learn some new things from your father. I think I have each time.”
“You always listen.” Leyladin smiled.
“Are you going to be in
Fairhaven for a while?”
“I hope so.”
“So do I.” So do I!
“I will be.” She leaned forward and hugged him, then kissed him, this time gently on the lips.
His lips tingled-was it how he felt or the interplay of order and chaos?