Lerial wakes early on eightday, and with no real solutions to the problems awaiting him in leaving Afrit and returning to Cigoerne, spends almost a glass after breakfast and morning muster, both sparring against Kusyl and Strauxyn—left-handed, since neither can match him right-handed—and then giving blade instruction to those picked out by their squad leaders as needing improvement. All that effort requires washing up and a clean uniform. It does not help his mood that much, although he feels slightly more virtuous, since he has not done that much one-on-one bladework since arriving in Afrit.
Then he decides to do something that has flitted in and out of his mind for days. When he steps out of his quarters, he glances around. Seeing no one, he raises a concealment, and then carefully makes his way out of the quarters and across the courtyard and, very slowly, and very carefully, past the guards at the gates, not fully closed, but open only enough for a single horse and rider to pass. He turns north onto the uneven stone walk flanking the wall. When he reaches the narrow lane at the north end of the wall, he steps into it, and sensing no one near, drops the concealment before continuing on past the café, still open, despite it being eightday, and to the cloth factorage that he has ridden past so often in recent days. When he reaches it, he tries the door, and finding it open, steps inside, where the air seems slightly drier, but not at all musty. Bolts of cloth are held in old but clean wooden racks. Before he can really survey the range of cloth on the racks, a voice rises from his left.
“This isn’t the café … or Madam Kula’s place … oh … I’m sorry, ser.” The older woman who had spoken frowns as she steps from behind one of the wooden racks. “You’re not a Guard ranker. Not a Guard officer, either.”
“No. I’m a Mirror Lancer overcaptain.” Lerial keeps his voice pleasant. “I just wanted to see what range of cloth you have.”
“Doesn’t seem that you’d have need for such.”
“Not now, but I once worked for a shimmersilk grower, and I didn’t see any of that in the window. Is that because it’s so dear?”
“Golds are cheaper than shimmersilk.”
A white-haired man eases from behind a counter on which are stacked bolts of what look to be differing cottons. He stops several yards away, but says nothing.
“They always have been, I’m told, at least since the fall of Cyador.”
“No one makes shimmersilk in Hamor.”
“There’s one grower in Cigoerne, but what they produce goes to Candar and Austra.”
“They say it comes from moths,” offers the woman.
Lerial has a feeling that her words are an invitation for him to reveal ignorance. “Not quite. It comes from the cocoons made by the worms that would turn into moths. Except they boil the cocoons and then tease out the strands for thread.” He pauses for an instant, trying to think of what to say to turn the conversation to what he wants to know. “It’s difficult, and that’s one reason why, I was told, anyway, that shimmersilk is so costly. I doubt that even the duke has many shimmercloth garments … or did, anyway.”
“Not as though we’d know,” says the white-haired man.
“I noticed some places have mourning cloths hanging, and others don’t. Is there a reason for that?” asks Lerial, adding, “I’m not from here, and I wondered.”
“I couldn’t say,” replies the woman. “We serve honest tradespeople. Probably years since I gave the palace more than a passing glance.”
The older man offers a piercing glance to the woman and asks, genially, “That’s quite a blade you sport, ser. It must have seen some use in the past few days.”
Lerial offers a polite smile. “Far too much, I fear. I notice most of your cloth is cotton or linen. Do you have much need of wool?”
“In Swartheld?” The man chuckles. “Most folks might have a wool blanket or two, and it’s handed down from mother to daughter.” After a pause, he asks, “Where was the silkmaker you worked for, if I might ask?”
“In Teilyn, southwest some two days from the city of Cigoerne.”
The man nods. “Is there anything in which we might interest you?”
“No, thank you. You’ve been most indulgent of my curiosity.” Lerial inclines his head.
“Glad we could help,” grudges the woman. She turns her back as Lerial walks toward the door. He opens it, and seeing that neither she nor the older man who is likely her consort is looking, he raises a concealment shield and closes the door without leaving the factorage. He moves back to where he can listen to anything they might say.
“Mite strange, Shaera, mite strange, especially that bit about mourning the duke,” says the older man.
“Paah … every duke’s like the one before. So long as they don’t raise tariffs and leave our granddaughters alone … it doesn’t much matter. Think that fellow really knew about shimmersilk?”
“He’s done more’n hold it. Didn’t hesitate to say where the grower was.”
“Can’t have done much more. Too young to be an officer worked up from a ranker.”
“Maybe not, but there’s a toughness there … not just a rich merchanter’s younger brat like so many Guard officers. See how cold his eyes got when I asked about that blade?”
“They say Cigoerne’s a tougher place.”
“Could be…” The older man signs. “Enough chatter. Need to see about that dun cotton … see if we can save it … or something…”