Lerial dismounts quickly, handing the gelding’s reins to a ranker who rides forward, then offers a hand to Kyedra.
She takes it, but places no pressure on him when she dismounts, her voice almost inaudible as she murmurs. “I don’t need the aid, but I appreciate the courtesy.”
He replies in an equally low voice. “I know that, but I’d hate to seem like a boor for not offering, especially in front of your grandfather’s retainers.”
She lifts her eyebrows as if to question.
“Anyone Rhamuel has trained to use a blade scarcely needs any help.” He smiles, but does not move until four rankers dismount and flank them. Only then does he nod toward the redstone steps.
The breeze is even stronger when they reach the stone terrace that fans out from the double doors of the main entrance. “He built this here, oriented in this direction, just for the prevailing winds, didn’t he?”
Kyedra gives Lerial a curious glance, but does not reply. Lerial does not press her.
After looking at Kyedra, the two guards open the doors, barely looking at Lerial or the rankers. Immediately beyond the doors is a circular vaulted entry hall, some fifteen yards across. The domed ceiling is an off-white, as are the walls. The floor is of interlocking white tiles, but the masonry grout is black, rather than the customary white or off-white. The hall itself has four archways, one for the entry, and each of the others opening to a wide hallway extending the length of each wing of the villa. Rising on both sides of the west archway are two curved staircases that lead to what looks to be an upper hall. The only furnishings in the entry hall are four identical sideboard cabinets of a golden wood, each one more than three yards long and curved to fit against the wall and placed equidistant from the archways flanking it. Each cabinet has a raised back, on which is carved a scene, although in the dim light, Lerial cannot make out the details.
Kyedra motions to the hall to the right, the one leading to the north wing. “Grandpapa is in his study.”
The corridor is also tiled in the black-grouted white tile, with the same off-white plaster walls. Lerial feels the breeze blowing in his face as they walk past door after door. Those few that are open reveal a library, a salon, a lady’s study, and what looks to be a children’s study.
“Is that where your mother had her lessons?”
“When she was older. I’ve had lessons there, too. Usually in the summer.”
“I imagine it’s much cooler here in the summer than in the palace.”
“Much cooler.”
Lerial guesses that the north wing is for family common spaces and studies, the west wing for entertaining, and the south wing for personal chambers.
Near the end of the corridor, Kyedra points to a half-open door on the left. “There’s the study.” She looks pointedly at the rankers behind them, then at Lerial.
“Just one inside,” Lerial murmurs. He would prefer none, but he has no real shields, and he knows he is physically still weary, if not close to exhausted.
The four rankers exchange glances before one, the broadest and oldest, steps forward. “Ser.”
Lerial nods.
Kyedra frowns, but does not voice a complaint before she eases the door open and steps inside, announcing, “I’ve brought Lord Lerial.”
Lerial and the lancer follow her. The study is not excessively large, some ten yards long and perhaps five wide, containing a wide table desk at one end, with four large cabinets against the wall behind it on each side of the large desk chair. The merchanter lies on a long leather couch set between two bookcases at the north end of the study. At each end of the couch is a small end table. Haesychya rises from a leather armchair facing the couch. The matching chair is empty, and only a pitcher and two mugs sit on the table between the armchairs. The wide windows on the west wall are open, and with the open door, there is a pleasant flow of air through the study.
Within moments of entering the study, Lerial can sense the chaos radiating from Aenslem’s gut. He can also sense chaos in the tumbler on the side table nearest Aenslem.
“What’s in the tumbler?” The words come out more sharply than Lerial intends.
“Tonic…” gasps the merchanter.
“That’s his tonic,” says Haesychya.
Lerial walks to the side table and lets his order-senses study the tumbler … and the small corked jug behind it. Both exude chaos, far stronger than he has originally sensed. He turns to Aenslem and leans down. “Pardon me, ser.” Lerial lets his fingertips brush the merchanter’s hot and damp forehead and then hover near his chest and the abdomen below. There is a definite similarity between the chaos in the tumbler and jug, and that emanating from Aenslem.
“What is it?”
“There’s something in your tonic. It’s not doing you any good.” Lerial doesn’t want to claim that Aenslem is being poisoned, although that is his surmise. It is just possible that some would-be healer has concocted some potion that is poisonous out of the best intentions.