Three men are grouped farthest from the edge of the terrace, talking, although Lerial can see that one is positioned to see whoever may enter the terrace.
“A welcoming group,” Graemaald murmurs sardonically, before raising his voice. “I see you wish to greet the arms-commander and his guests. You all know the esteemed Arms-Commander Rhamuel, by name and position, if not by face. The officer in the Mirror Lancer greens is Lord Lerial of Cigoerne, and overcaptain of Mirror Lancers, and the Afritan officer is Ascaar, subcommander and senior battalion commander. These distinguished merchanters are, in turn, Kenkram, Poellyn, and Dhelamyn. I will let them provide more on themselves, or not, as they please.”
Lerial nods politely, then finds the merchanter identified as Kenkram stepping toward him.
Kenkram is a squarish man of middling height with unruly wiry reddish gray hair surmounting a round and slightly pockmarked face, with incongruously cheerful blue eyes. “So you’re the one.”
The one what? “If you mean the one senior Mirror Lancer officer to enter Afrit in years, yes, I’m the one. Other than that…” Lerial shrugs.
“You’re also the youngest undercaptain in Hamor to command in battle. At least the youngest to command, win, and survive.”
How does he know that? “I wouldn’t know. And neither my father nor I knew that I’d be in battle then. He needed to send a son to show good faith.”
Kenkram grins, showing a mouth full of enormous white teeth. “You’ve been an active Lancer officer ever since. Why?”
“Why not? That way I can be useful, and he can devote more time to Cigoerne.”
“Is all of your family that practical?”
Lerial shrugs again. “I’d say so. My mother and my aunt are healers, and my aunt is the head of the Hall of Healing in Cigoerne.”
“She’s the one who saved the arms-commander, isn’t she? That why you’re here?”
“No. The duke made a polite request for some Mirror Lancers to assist him in dealing with Duke Khesyn. My father decided I’d be the one to lead them.”
“Practical,” declares Kenkram.
“Speaking of practical, what do you merchant?”
“Rope and cordage, when I’m not otherwise engaged.”
“That’s an area of my education that I have to say has been neglected.” Belatedly, Lerial remembers that Kenkram is an advocate and merchants water shares.
“There are two kinds of rope. The dryland ropes we make from hemp plants. Hemp will grow almost anywhere, provided there’s enough water. The cordage for ships, the best cordage for hawsers and rigging, that comes from falana—the false banana plants.”
“They don’t grow here, do they?”
“No. We—the family—have some lands on the western edge of Afrit, where the rains come in off the Eastern Ocean. They’re near, really below, an old volcano. We draw all the ship ropes and cordage there. We’ve got a deepwater pier, and that makes it simple.”
“Why do you need two kinds of rope?”
“The hemp rope draws water inside, and you can’t tell if it’s rotten until it breaks. It’s less costly, and some shipowners still want the hemp ropes, and they’ll tar them with bitumen to keep the inside dry.” Kenkram shakes his head, and Lerial notices that not a frizzy hair on his scalp so much as moves.
“What about river traders? For their boats and ships, I mean?” Lerial finds he is interested, despite the almost offhand explanations of the merchant.
The merchanter snorts. “Hemp. They want cheap. If a line or sheet breaks, the shore isn’t that far away.”
“I understand you also are merchanter in water shares…”
“One cannot grow anything without water, but that is not really merchanting.” Kenkram shrugs. “There is so much more about rope than most realize…”
After learning more about rope than he had ever thought about, and perhaps more than he needs to know, and then about making glass from Poellyn, Lerial finally slips away, realizing that he had never discovered what Dhelamyn merchants or produces. With a rueful smile, he moves toward the edge of the terrace when a server approaches him.
“Ser, what would you like to drink?”
“A pale lager,” replies Lerial.
“Pale golden or the ice white, ser?”
“The least bitter.”
“That would be the pale golden. Just a moment, ser.”
Lerial barely has time to turn to the east toward the river and look over the stone filigreed balustrade, just over waist high, when the server returns.
“Pale golden, ser.”