“Why are you telling me this?”
“You should know. That’s so you don’t make matters worse. After what Maesoryk seems to have done, can you say that removing Valatyr was wrong?”
“Why not tell Rhamuel?”
“That hasn’t worked in the past.” Aenslem’s voice is not only raspy, but dry. “Even if he had listened, he would have asked for proof, and I couldn’t have given it without revealing too much. You must have seen that Rhamuel and I are not exactly close.”
While Lerial’s mind isn’t exactly reeling, he feels appalled at the currents and crosscurrents, schemes and counterschemes that run beneath the seemingly placid surface of Afritan merchanter society. He also understands that there are no witnesses to their conversation, and no real proof. For him to accuse Aenslem would indeed make matters worse—not to mention creating a rift between Cigoerne and Afrit. And it would accomplish nothing.
“I think you’re beginning to understand,” observes the merchanter.
“I doubt I understand near enough. I feel like I’m standing in a camma tree grove with a forest fire raging toward me.” At his own words, he starts … and then swallows, remembering just what he had forgotten about Maesoryk. “Frig! Frig! Frig!”
“What is it?”
“Cammabark. That’s why Maesoryk wanted those forest lands so filled with camma trees that most others didn’t. That’s most likely where the cammabark in the palace and at the Harbor Post came from.”
Aenslem frowns. “I can’t believe … even Maesoryk…”
“A merchanter, Shalaara, I think it was, borrowed golds from Fhastal to keep some forest lands infested with camma trees from falling into Maesoryk’s hands through debts a family owed. But he bought the lands anyway, paying much more for them. Shalaara got a profit from it, and Maesoryk was furious. Rhamuel told me that as a reason why Maesoryk dislikes Fhastal.”
“I remember that … we all thought it was about the golds … and Maesoryk being forced to pay more for what he felt was rightly his.”
“Maybe that was what you were supposed to think.” Hidden right out in the open.
Aenslem nods again, almost reluctantly, it seems to Lerial, then asks, “Do you have any more questions?”
Lerial shakes his head.
“I have one for you. Why are you still here, risking yourself?”
“Because, if Afrit falls, so will Cigoerne.”
“So you’re the sacrificial goat to save Cigoerne?”
Lerial does not reply for a moment, thinking about what Altyrn had written him. “More to save the best of Cyador that remains in Cigoerne, I think.”
“That’s a strange answer.”
Only if you’re a merchanter, thinking golds are both means and ends. “It’s the only one I can give.”
“You can invite my daughter and granddaughter back in, if you wish.”
“I should be going. The Heldyans may already be preparing their next attack, and I’d like to know what Sammyl and his scouts have discovered.”
Aenslem nods. “I won’t keep you. You do have my thanks and gratitude for saving my life. I don’t forget.”
Either good or evil. “Thank you. I’m glad I could do what I could.”
“So am I … and so is my daughter. Whether she’ll say so … that’s another question.”
Lerial isn’t about to comment on that. He just says, “Good day,” and leaves the study.
Kyedra is the first to see him, and she emerges from the salon that is behind the next door in the long corridor. “You’re leaving?”
“I’m certain he needs to get back to the palace,” says Haesychya from the salon door.
“I’ll walk you to the door, then,” says Kyedra, not looking in her mother’s direction.
“I’d appreciate that,” Lerial says immediately.
Neither speaks until they are several yards from Haesychya.
“You won’t tell me what you talked about?”
“No. That’s up to your grandfather. If he wants to tell you, he will.”
“You’re as bad as he is.”
Lerial’s initial reaction is to deny the charge … but, unhappily, he realizes Kyedra is right, if not in the way she meant. “No. In some ways, I’m worse. I’ve certainly killed more men than he has, and the men under me have certainly killed more than those under him.”
Kyedra offers a puzzled look before her mouth opens, then closes. Finally, she says, “That was a strange way of answering.”
“No. Just accurate, and it might be best to leave it at that. I don’t want you to have illusions.”
“About either of you, I presume.” Her tone is cool.
“You know your grandfather. You scarcely know me. I’m more worried about any illusions you might have about me.”
“Most men would rather women have illusions.” Kyedra stops well short of the double doors that lead out onto the entry terrace.
“I’m not most men.”
“I believe you mentioned that before.” Kyedra softens her words at the end, with a slight smile as well. “You seem very determined I not have illusions about you. Why?”