Even Maesoryk seems disconcerted by the sudden change of topic, for he pauses a long moment before replying.
“Only when I’m here, if then. Not much these days. Nonsoryk is my youngest. He’s in Nubyat, rebuilding a tileworks we recently bought. The oldest is Bhalmaes. He’s in Luba at present. Well … a bit west of there on the new canal where he’s just completed our new ceramic works. From there, it’s easier to send goods downstream. We’ll be able to boat goods to some of the Heldyan river towns as well—Vyada, Thoerne, and some others. We have an arrangement with Kenkram that allows use of the canal for an annual fee, rather than for a levy on each barge or boat…”
“No daughters?”
“Just one. Maera. She was recently consorted to Kenkram’s eldest. We try to use family ties, you know.” The merchanter laughs again.
Lerial studies Maesoryk carefully, noting again the heavy gold chain around the merchanter’s neck. After a moment of consideration, he extends his order-senses and creates a variation on one of the patterns he has used in the past, a very small pattern linked to the chain that will slowly remove chaos, and only chaos, over the next glass or so … and possibly longer. “Do you believe in the power of order?”
“A man would be a fool to deny either order or chaos.”
“That’s true.” Lerial stands and smiles. “I believe you’ve answered my questions to the best of your ability, Merchanter Maesoryk. We won’t take any more of your time. We do have a long ride back to Swartheld, and Duke Rhamuel will wish to know about Merchanter Jhosef’s treachery as soon as possible.”
After a brief hesitation, Norstaan rises, unable to conceal a frown.
Maesoryk is more successful in concealing what he feels behind a pleasant smile. “I’m glad that I was able to address your questions.”
“So am I,” replies Lerial, smiling, if for a different reason. He can already sense what Maesoryk cannot yet feel. He looks to Norstaan. “We should be going.” Then his eyes turn to Maesoryk. “We can find our way out.” With those words, he leaves the merchanter before Maesoryk can protest.
Lerial says little except for the necessary commands as they leave Maesoryk’s grounds and ride back along the lake road that leads toward Lake Jhulyn.
Finally, Norstaan looks at Lerial. “He was lying, you know. Every word was a lie. Why did you let him get away with it?”
“There’s no proof … He’s right. He had great damage to his tileworks. No one will realize that he was likely going to destroy or close the works anyway. Why else would he be opening a new works near Luba and another in Nubyat? Even so, there will be a cloud on his reputation, no matter what he says, and everyone will look askance at him for the rest of his life.”
“But we all know that he was in as deep as Jhosef and Alaphyn. How could you let him get away with it, ser?”
Lerial looks at Norstaan. “He won’t get away with anything. You’ll see. Even Maesoryk won’t be able to live with himself.” That, of course, is absolutely true, but not in the way that Lerial is implying.
Norstaan offers a puzzled frown.
“Trust me. You’ll see. The important thing, now, is to return to Swartheld as quickly as possible.” Lerial isn’t about to explain.
LIV
Lerial takes his forces back to Jhosef’s villa, where they spend fourday night before setting out before dawn on fiveday morning on the return journey to Swartheld. As he rides through the gray before full light, Lerial considers what he has done with Maesoryk, wondering if he has acted too much like the scheming merchanters who have undermined Afrit. Yet, what else could he have done with Maesoryk? The man was a masterful prevaricator and deceiver, so masterful that there is not a decent shed of physical evidence against him. The other merchanters will not be able to complain about Lerial’s handling of Jhosef, because Jhosef was killed by his own son while Lerial was under attack—or thought to be, he reminds himself—by two chaos-mages. Any physical attack on Maesoryk would only have made relations between Rhamuel and the merchanters even worse, as well as made matters more difficult for Lerial’s father.
Self-justification? Lerial laughs silently. It is just that, but it’s also absolutely true.
By midafternoon, they reach the Streamside, where Lerial calls for a rest stop while he seeks out the innkeeper and his consort. He does not have to search, because no sooner has he entered the inn than the stocky and graying Immar appears, his eyes moving from Lerial to the door behind him.
“Honored Overcaptain…”
“Please summon your consort. I am not here to make life harder for you, but to tell you what I have discovered. I will wait in the public room.”