Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (25 page)

“By birth.”

“More than that. I’d judge, but we won’t dwell on it.” She pauses. “You asked why Rhamuel asked me. He didn’t say. Neither did Graemaald. Graemaald wasn’t pleased, and he made clear he was doing it as a favor to Rhamuel, hoping I wouldn’t come. Of course, I had to then, if only to disappoint that overblown cotton factor.”

“You said you began in foodstuffs. That implies quite a bit more.”

“I can see why Rhamuel wants you to meet a few people … or have them meet you.”

“Flatboats, schooners … or transport … or is it warehouses?” asks Lerial with a smile.

“Both, actually. Who told you?”

“No one. You avoided the question. I guessed—and it was a guess—you wouldn’t want to deal with perishables, and since it would be hard to take a commanding position in dealing with another commodity … Anyway, that was the idea…” Lerial shrugs.

Shalaara laughs again. “You need to talk to a few others. I wish you well, Lord Lerial.”

Lerial almost shakes his head as she moves away.

“Overcaptain…?”

At the sound of Ascaar’s voice, Lerial turns. With the subcommander is another older officer, also in uniform.

“I’d like you to meet Commander Vonacht.”

Vonacht’s hair is snow-white, in contrast to his black eyes and weathered and tanned face. He nods to Lerial. “Overcaptain … and Lord, I understand.”

“Lord only by birth, not accomplishments, Commander.”

“You can get away with that for only a few more years.”

“Longer, I hope,” Lerial replies with a smile. “You were chief of staff, perhaps?”

“Demons, no. Just a senior battalion commander. That was enough. From what I’ve heard, you’ve already commanded in more battles than I did in all the time I was in the Guard.”

“Fought, perhaps. Not commanded. Majer Altyrn commanded in Verdheln.”

“I told you he doesn’t like taking credit for what others do,” adds Ascaar.

“Good thing you’re already a lord, then, and from Cigoerne.” The dry edge to Vonacht’s voice suggests why Rhamuel had wanted the older commander at the dinner.

Lerial glances around, noticing that there are a good twenty people on the terrace, most with beakers or goblets in their hands. “I’m surprised that so many were able to come on such short notice.”

“Few would turn down an opportunity to see the arms-commander,” replies Vonacht, “or be seen in his company.”

“Or be able to claim that?” asks Lerial.

“That as well.”

“Is that because the duke and his family do not visit here often?’

“It has been years since that happened.”

“No one talks much about his consort,” Lerial ventures.

“That’s because she’s seen less than he is,” says Ascaar. “She comes from the Aenian Clan—”

“Aenian House,” corrects Vonacht. “Her father is Aenslem, the head of the Merchanting Council in Swartheld.”

“She’s said to be charming in private, but terrified in large groups,” adds Ascaar.

“Quite charming, I might add, and quiet, but far from terrified,” offers a heavyset merchanter attired in a pale lavender overtunic trimmed in deep green. “Lord Lerial, I’m Mesphaes, a shameless factor in wines and other spirits, with a claim on having the best distilleries in Afrit, if not in all Hamor. If I might have a word with you…”

Lerial looks to see Vonacht, but the stipended commander winks, grins, and eases away, drawing Ascaar with him.

“You might,” Lerial say amiably, “if you’ll first tell me a bit about the lady. I don’t even know her name.”

“Haesychya,” replies Mesphaes. “She is fair and slender, with hair the color of pale strawberry wine. Other than that, I can say little, because she reputedly also says very little, except in the privacy of the palace and among family and close friends. That is a trait that runs in the House of Aenian.”

“Thank you … and what did you have in mind?”

“The possibility of a letter of introduction to a factor of influence in Cigoerne.”

Lerial offers an embarrassed smile. “I could offer you a letter of introduction to my father, but not to a factor of influence. I was never trained in trading and factoring, and I’ve been away from Cigoerne most of the last six years.”

“One would think…” Mesphaes shakes his head ruefully. “Without trade and tariffs, a land cannot long survive.”

Lerial nods. “I agree. So does my father, but we remain slightly removed from the affairs of trade. So long as traders and merchanters pay their tariffs and obey the laws, the duke and his ministers do not become involved. Disputes go to a justicer. Although the duke may review a decision, seldom is a justicer’s finding overturned.”

For several long moments, Mesphaes is silent.

Lerial keeps a pleasant expression on his face, but does not speak.

Finally, the merchanter shakes his head once more. “Even without an introduction, it appears as though I should look into the possibility of opening a factorage in Cigoerne.”

“You are in spirits.” Lerial pauses. “You might inquire of the widow of Majer Altyrn about the possibility of purchasing some of the dark lager they brew in Teilyn. I’ve not had anything like it—not so far—here in Afrit.”

A smile crosses the merchanter’s face. “Is she attractive?”

“Very. But as a lady long consorted to a man she adored and most recently widowed, I doubt her inclinations will be romantic. The lager, however, is likely to prove profitable.”

“Have you other … information?”

“There are a number of factoring houses in Cigoerne. Most I know little of, but I would be most wary of Myrapol House.” Now that Veraan has taken over running the factoring house founded by his late mother, Lerial isn’t about to recommend it.

“Oh?”

“It’s quite successful, but … I question some of the basis of that success.” There is something else about Myrapol … but Lerial cannot remember what that might be.

Mesphaes nods. “I appreciate that information.”

“Still trying to get the first opportunities, Mesphaes?” The new speaker is an angular man a good half a head shorter than Lerial.

“Why would I do otherwise, Khaythor?” The spirits merchanter turns to Lerial. “Khaythor is renowned for his wit and his ability to procure and mill any kind of timber known to man. Well, except camma wood. That’s too dangerous for a mill.”

“Too dangerous to grow. We thin those whenever we see one.”

Dangerous to grow…?
Abruptly, Lerial recalls what Altyrn had said and how the elders of Verdheln used cammabark to blast away dirt and rock for roads … and how they’d used it against the Meroweyans at Faerwest. “What about lorken?”

“In smaller quantities,” admits Khaythor, with a smile that includes not just his lips, but his whole face and light green eyes. “Are there any stocks in Cigoerne?”

“If there are, they would only be known to the people of the Verd.”

“That’s too bad. One can scarcely make a profit when timber is eightdays by wagon from a river or the ocean.”

Lerial loses track of Mephaes’s response, because he hears two men somewhere behind him talking in comparatively low voices, and he is straining to catch the words.

“… you know Aenian House has an advantage…”

“… not if they don’t use it. Alaphyn is far better positioned to deal with the Austrans…”

“… what about the Nordlans?”

While Lerial recognizes the fact that the duke’s consort is from Aenian House, he cannot decipher anything close to the specifics of what he hears in passing.

“… always about transport, Mesphaes,” Khaythor continues. “It doesn’t matter if you have the goods, not if you can’t get them to those who want them cheaply…”

“But you have to obtain them with better quality or lower costs, don’t you?” asks Lerial amiably.

“Transport is just part of the cost.”

“Ah … here’s Lord Lerial!” Two more merchanters join the group. The speaker wears a white linen jacket over a pale green shirt, rather than the muslin overtunic favored by many of the merchanters, and he looks directly at Lerial. “Corsonnyl—not so much a merchanter as a builder of fine structures.”

“A merchanter of buildings and dwellings by any other name,” adds the shorter man with him, clad in a dark blue overtunic. “And I’m Sosostryn … and proud to claim to be just a merchanter of fine fowl. Any kind, any time.”

A merchanter of fowl? Does he raise them by the scores?
Lerial nods. “I’m pleased to meet you both. What sort of buildings?”

“Any kind. I built this villa for Graemaald…”

Lerial listens as Corsonnyl declaims on the stones in Graemaald’s villa and how the stones employed, the purpose of a structure, and the location all must be considered in order to create the best possible building.

A set of chimes brings the time of refreshments to a close, and in moments Lerial finds himself seated at the long table, with Rhamuel at the head, Graemaald to the left of the arms-commander and Lerial to the right. On Lerial’s right is an older man, with thick gray hair, introduced to Lerial by Rhamuel as Fhastal, a merchanter of note, both in Shaelt and in Swartheld. Once several toasts have been offered, the first to Rhamuel, the second to Lerial, and the third in appreciation of all those who came on such short notice, Fhastal turns to Lerial.

“Have you been adequately introduced, or merely inundated?”

“Adequately introduced and occasionally inundated.”

“That is the nature of such dinners. One attempts to overwhelm with spirits, conversation, excellent fare, the obvious known, and the insignificant otherwise unknown, in an effort to gain an advantage that may never be used, but which will be remembered and held in case of necessity or mere opportunity.”

“Then,” replies Lerial with a laugh, “what obvious known and intriguing insignificant unknown will you present?”

“The obvious to all but you”—Fhastal smiles—“is that I trade in golds, silvers, and coppers. I provide letters of credit based on those, and take an interest in the resources of those who need ready credit or ready golds.”

“Then at times, you must have found yourself with interests in or in possession of almost every form of merchanting … and learned something, if not much, about each. That, in turn, since you are here, obviously enabled you to become even more astute.”

“Some might say so, but in the merchanting of golds, one single misstep can destroy one, just as a single grave misstep can destroy a ruler.”

“Or a commander in battle,” adds Rhamuel.

“Precisely.”

“And your insignificant but intriguing unknown?”

“That I once purchased some jewelry from your grandmere, and paid more than anyone thought I should have.”

“Was it worth it?”

Fhastal smiles once more. “I did not profit from the trade, but I more than profited from the knowledge.”

“And what might have been the profit from that knowledge?” Lerial asks lightly.

“Let me just say that I was one trader in golds and credits when I made that purchase. Now…” He shrugs.

Lerial looks pointedly at Graemaald.

The cotton merchant pauses, then replies. “He holds the largest countinghouse in Hamor, by any reckoning.”

That explains why Fhastal is seated where he is … or at least one reason. “That suggests that you maintain interests in far more than golds and credit.”

“I must confess that I do have some such interests. Now … what about a known obvious and an insignificant unknown in return?”

“The known obvious is that I am the second son of the duke of Cigoerne and an overcaptain in the Mirror Lancers. An insignificant unknown? I spent a summer and more digging irrigation trenches on the lands of Majer Altyrn.”

“I will accept that, gratefully,” replies Fhastal with a smile more like the grin of a satisfied mountain cat, “although I would not term it insignificant.”

“I only returned in kind.”

Graemaald stiffens slightly at Lerial’s words, while Rhamuel shows the slightest hint of a nod.

Fhastal laughs, if almost softly.

When the laughter ends, Lerial says, “Tell me what others know. In how many towns and cities are your countinghouses … those sorts of matters.”

“That I can do … willingly. There are large houses in Swartheld and Shaelt, and smaller ones in Luba and Guasyra. The main house is in Shaelt. We have very small houses in Dolari, Kysha, Nubyat, and, of course, Cigoerne…”

Fhastal has a countinghouse in Cigoerne. That, Lerial had not known, but he had no reason to know. He nods, thinking.
Might that be how Emerya has sent letters to Rhamuel all these years?

“Those houses outside Afrit … would it not be risky for them to hold much in the way of golds or silvers?”

“Not so long as the countinghouses from Merowey and Heldya operate in Afrit,” returns Fhastal.

That also makes a sort of sense to Lerial. “And family … they are involved?”

“Both daughters and two of my sons.”

“Daughters…” murmurs Graemaald.

“There are some transactions better suited to women, dear friend,” replies Fhastal, although the gentleness of the phrase “dear friend” suggests courtesy rather than friendship, it seems to Lerial.

After more talk of the countinghouses, Rhamuel clears his throat and looks at Lerial. “Perhaps you could enlighten Graemaald and Fhastal on what Cigoerne is like these days.”

“I’d be more than happy to do so, but you must realize you’ll be seeing it through the eyes of a Lancer officer and not a merchanter.”

“That will be far better than no eyes or a faded memory.”

Lerial doubts Rhamuel’s memory has faded in the least, but he nods and begins. “As I told the arms-commander earlier, Cigoerne has grown greatly in the past five years…”

By the time the dinner is finally over, and Lerial, Ascaar, and Rhamuel are riding back to the post, Lerial can only hope he did not reveal anything he will regret, because his head is swimming with details and partly remembered faces and conversations.

And what you’ll likely face in Swartheld will be far worse.

XXI

Once they reach Shaelt Post, just before they dismount, Lerial turns to Ascaar. “If you have a moment later … there are some details.”

Ascaar nods, although there is a hint of a smile in his eyes. “Half a glass in your quarters? They’re better than mine.”