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.
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…”