“Yes, ser.”
Lerial does not wait long before the innkeeper returns to the public room with his consort, although both come from the kitchen entrance. He gestures to a square table in the middle of the room, then seats himself, waiting for them to do the same before speaking. “A wealthy merchanter was the one who sent the armsmen who kidnapped the heir and his friend. His acts led to his own death and that of the heir and his own son.”
“The merchanter … Jhosef?” Immar’s voice trembles.
“You don’t have to worry about him. He is dead. So are the chaos-mages who helped him, and so are most of his armsmen.” Lerial shifts his gaze to Jamara. “I cannot bring back your son. I told you that earlier, but I wanted you to know what had happened … and that the duke will know that all this evil was done against you as well as the heir.” He pauses as he sees a young and clearly new serving girl approaching the table with a mug. Lerial does not refuse the lager that she sets on the table before him. He is thirsty. “How much?”
“For you, ser…” begins Immar.
Lerial shakes his head. “You have already lost too much. I cannot add to that loss.” He takes three coppers from his personal wallet and sets them on the table, then looks at the girl. “Is that what he charges?”
The girl swallows. “Two, ser.” Her voice trembles.
Lerial smiles gently. “Take the extra copper for your honesty. The two go in Immar’s till.”
“Yes, ser.” She takes the coppers and retreats quickly.
Lerial turns back to Immar and Jamara. He senses that the lager holds no chaos and takes a small swallow, finding it better than he has expected. “This is a fair lager.”
“We’ve good water,” replies Jamara, almost proudly.
“I appreciate that.” After a moment, he goes on. “The new duke is a fair and honest man, and I think you will find him so. I have, I know.” He reaches for the provisions wallet and takes out five golds, setting them on the table. “One can never replace a child, nor a loved one. But all dukes pay death golds for those who have died in their service. These are the same, for you and your family provided services to the duke for years, and you should have some recognition of your loss beyond mere words.” Lerial takes another swallow of the lager, hoping that he is doing the right thing, for he does not wish to insult them … and yet there should be some recognition. “One other thing … Do you have some paper and a pen and ink I could use?”
“Ah … yes, ser.” Immar hurries away … not touching the golds that lie still on the table.
Lerial takes another swallow two of the lager while he waits for the innkeeper to return. When Immar does, he hands a single sheet to Lerial, and sets the pen and inkpot on the table, well away from the golds.
The paper is thick, but smooth enough for what Lerial has in mind as he begins to write. When he finishes, he reads over the words, set out in as precise a script as he can manage, good, if not quite as elegant as the hand of a true scrivener.
To All Men of Afrit—
Be it known from this day forth, the fourth fiveday of spring, in the year of the death of Duke Atroyan, that Immar the innkeeper has rendered service to Rhamuel, Duke of Afrit, and that he is held in regard by the Duke for that service.
Set forth in the Duke’s name.
Lerial,
Emissary of the Duke
Overcaptain
Lerial lays the sheet on the table for the ink to dry, turned and positioned so that the two can see it. “This might help with others who question you. If you like, I can read what I wrote.”
Immar shakes his head. “I know my letters, unlike some.”
Jamara’s eyes are bright as she looks to Lerial.
He eases back the chair and stands. “I need to press on and report to the duke. I likely will not see you again. I can only wish you well.”
He turns and leaves the public room, hoping that the less than formal proclamation will reduce the innkeeper’s concerns.
Once they leave the inn, by pressing on late on fiveday and beginning before dawn on sixday, they reach Swartheld just before seventh glass on sixday night.
As Lerial rides silently beside Norstaan through the twilit streets of the city, he continues to ponder those concerns that he has thought about over and over on the ride back from the lakes, realizing again that he cannot reveal much of what he has learned to almost anyone, possibly not everything even to Rhamuel, and certainly not to Haesychya or Kyedra. He doesn’t mind limiting what he says to Atroyan’s widow, but keeping things from Kyedra bothers him, even though he knows that is a foolish feeling, given that he remains the younger brother—the wrong brother.