“Thank you.” Lerial takes the crystal beaker, on which is cut the initial “G,” and lets his order-senses range over the lager. He detects no chaos and takes a small sip. The lager is good, but not so good as that of Rhamuel, or even the darker lager he recalls from his time at Kinaar with Majer Altyrn and Maeroja.
From where he stands, Lerial studies Shaelt, obviously built on a long and gently sloping incline above the river—or the land has been shaped into that over the years—with the more elaborate dwellings higher on the slope. He can barely see the end of the two piers, since his view of the inner sections are blocked by the dwellings below Graemaald’s villa and the warehouses and factorages just to the west of the river road.
A tall woman with shimmering black hair appears at Lerial’s side. “Good evening, Lord Lerial.”
Lerial turns and appraises her. The filmy shimmersilk head scarf she has allowed largely to slip is so sheer that it conceals nothing. She is slender and almost as tall as he is, although some of that height is doubtless from the high-heeled black boots she wears. The fine lines radiating from the corners of her black eyes and the slight creases in her forehead suggest that she is likely near the age of his aunt or mother. She embodies neither excessive order nor any chaos, and an amused smile plays across her lips. “Good evening,” he returns after a brief pause.
“I’m Shalaara. The woman merchanter that Rhamuel trots out when he wants to prove that there are women of wealth and power in Afrit. Always when his brother isn’t around, of course.”
“To that, I’d have to say that I’m Lerial, the younger son of Duke Kiedron, and the one for whom Rhamuel hosts a dinner to prove that there are other younger sons who have a nodding acquaintance with arms.” As she smiles at his words, an expression somewhere between amused and sardonic, he adds, “And why might he have to prove that there are powerful women merchanters to a mere second son in the smallest duchy in Hamor?”
“A mere second son? There are many who would kill their firstborn son for that position … or failing that, kill the daughters of any rivals to consort their daughter to you.”
“Then they haven’t seen Cigoerne,” Lerial replies with a laugh. “The duke’s palace is less than half the size of Graemaald’s.”
“What of yours?”
“I have two rooms there, and a single room at my post in Ensenla.” Lerial can see that, unlike many of the men who have appeared on the terrace, who clearly enjoy excessively the benefits of fine food and wine or lager, Shalaara is trim and muscular … and, for all that, likely more dangerous. “What kind of merchanting do you engage in?”
“What kind might you think?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea, only that you must be very good at it, and likely are excellent with accounts.”
Her laugh is soft and throaty, and reminds Lerial of what a mountain cat of the Westhorns might sound like, not that he has ever seen one, let alone heard one.
“You may be right about the ledgers. I began by trading in foodstuffs. There are ways to keep food good for long periods, special ways of drying, salting … and … other ways.”
“Order infusion?”
She shakes her head. “There’s too much free chaos around those who need food preserved for longer times. But … that is an interesting question. You’re Magi’i, aren’t you?”
“By birth.”
“More than that. I’d judge, but we won’t dwell on it.” She pauses. “You asked why Rhamuel asked me. He didn’t say. Neither did Graemaald. Graemaald wasn’t pleased, and he made clear he was doing it as a favor to Rhamuel, hoping I wouldn’t come. Of course, I had to then, if only to disappoint that overblown cotton factor.”
“You said you began in foodstuffs. That implies quite a bit more.”
“I can see why Rhamuel wants you to meet a few people … or have them meet you.”
“Flatboats, schooners … or transport … or is it warehouses?” asks Lerial with a smile.
“Both, actually. Who told you?”
“No one. You avoided the question. I guessed—and it was a guess—you wouldn’t want to deal with perishables, and since it would be hard to take a commanding position in dealing with another commodity … Anyway, that was the idea…” Lerial shrugs.
Shalaara laughs again. “You need to talk to a few others. I wish you well, Lord Lerial.”
Lerial almost shakes his head as she moves away.
“Overcaptain…?”
At the sound of Ascaar’s voice, Lerial turns. With the subcommander is another older officer, also in uniform.
“I’d like you to meet Commander Vonacht.”
Vonacht’s hair is snow-white, in contrast to his black eyes and weathered and tanned face. He nods to Lerial. “Overcaptain … and Lord, I understand.”
“Lord only by birth, not accomplishments, Commander.”
“You can get away with that for only a few more years.”
“Longer, I hope,” Lerial replies with a smile. “You were chief of staff, perhaps?”
“Demons, no. Just a senior battalion commander. That was enough. From what I’ve heard, you’ve already commanded in more battles than I did in all the time I was in the Guard.”