“For now,” Lerial agrees.
Haesychya inclines her head, and Lerial returns the gesture.
Aenslem and Lerial walk toward the entry hall.
“She’s worried that Kyedra will become attached to you, as if you don’t already know.”
“Is that her worry … or is it that Kyedra will become attached to a less powerful junior son when she might have more power in consorting his elder brother?”
“For someone your age, you don’t miss much.”
Lerial laughs. “I think that suggests that I still miss too much.”
This time Aenslem laughs.
When he finishes, Lerial asks, “What am I missing?”
“What do you think you’re missing?” As they enter the main entry hall, Aenslem heads for the west corridor.
“Besides the fact that Haesychya resents women being subservient to men, when she’s more perceptive than most?” As if that is not often true.
“You’re close enough.” Aenslem turns down a small side corridor that leads to a door out into a walk that leads through a walled garden and out into the rear courtyard.
Neither speaks much until they are mounted and well away from the villa. Finally, Lerial ventures, “I didn’t realize Haesychya hated the palace so much.”
“I gave her and Sophrosynia too much freedom growing up. They thought they were the equal of any man.”
“I haven’t met Sophrosynia, but Haesychya certainly is.”
Aenslem shakes his head. “No. They’re both smarter and see more than most men, and most men don’t like that. Atroyan certainly didn’t. Fhastal doesn’t either, but, unlike Atroyan, he listens and weighs what Sophrosynia has to say.”
“Some have said you don’t much care for Fhastal, but that doesn’t sound as though that’s the case.”
“I don’t like him. He’s arrogant, and he’s cost me more than I want to count. But he’s the best at what he does, and he’s been good to Sophrosynia. She loves him, and he loves her. But I don’t have to like him.”
Lerial doesn’t know what to say to that, and he is silent for several long moments, thinking.
“I have my likes and dislikes, young Lerial, and I’ve got more than a few faults. My daughters and Kyedra could list them all, but they’re loyal, and they won’t. One thing I learned a long time ago was not to judge men—or women—on whether you like them. I’ll do business with a man I dislike who’s trustworthy, and I won’t with a man I like personally but distrust.” After a moment Aenslem smiles and adds, “Unless, of course, it’s golds in advance, and all the risk is on his part. Even then, I’m wary.”
Lerial nods, hoping Aenslem will say more.
After they have ridden a while longer and are on the road leading to the circle around the palace, the merchanter speaks again. “I heard you say that you’re remaining at Rhamuel’s request. Just how badly is he injured? The plain truth, now. Will he live?”
“He’s as likely to live as any of us. He may not walk again, but it’s early to say on that.”
“What about children? Even if he weren’t crippled, he’s no longer a young man.”
“It’s possible, so far as I can tell.”
“Possible doesn’t mean there’ll be an heir.”
“That may be, but Afrit needs a duke.”
Aenslem nods, cautiously, and Lerial doesn’t press.
Less than half a glass later, Lerial and Aenslem walk into the sitting room that has effectively become Rhamuel’s study. The arms-commander is looking at a map.
“Rhamuel, I brought someone to see you.”
The surprise in the arms-commander’s eyes is unfeigned as he catches sight of the merchanter. “Aenslem!”
“It seems I’m up and around sooner than you, Rhamuel.”
“It would seem so.” Rhamuel gestures to one of the chairs before the table desk.
Aenslem takes one and Lerial the other.
“Where’s Sammyl?” asks Lerial.
“Visiting South Point, South Post, and Harbor Post. We both thought his presence would confirm that matters are stable here in Swartheld.”
“That will help, but you need to proclaim yourself duke,” declares Aenslem.
“I thought it wise to discuss the matter with the head of the Merchanting Council … after I was certain that it appeared likely I’d survive long enough for it to matter,” says Rhamuel dryly. “Otherwise … what would be the point?”
“You’ve always been practical. I’ll grant you that,” says Aenslem. “I’ll be the same. I’ll support you, and so will Fhastal. Maesoryk doesn’t matter, if he’s even still alive, and Lhugar has to back you. You have Maephaes on your side. Alaphyn won’t. He hated your brother, and he doesn’t like you any better—”
“He’s not in Swartheld. He may not even be in Afrit,” Rhamuel says, looking to Lerial.
“Five of his ships loaded cargo on sixday and departed from Swartheld.”