“Fought, perhaps. Not commanded. Majer Altyrn commanded in Verdheln.”
“I told you he doesn’t like taking credit for what others do,” adds Ascaar.
“Good thing you’re already a lord, then, and from Cigoerne.” The dry edge to Vonacht’s voice suggests why Rhamuel had wanted the older commander at the dinner.
Lerial glances around, noticing that there are a good twenty people on the terrace, most with beakers or goblets in their hands. “I’m surprised that so many were able to come on such short notice.”
“Few would turn down an opportunity to see the arms-commander,” replies Vonacht, “or be seen in his company.”
“Or be able to claim that?” asks Lerial.
“That as well.”
“Is that because the duke and his family do not visit here often?’
“It has been years since that happened.”
“No one talks much about his consort,” Lerial ventures.
“That’s because she’s seen less than he is,” says Ascaar. “She comes from the Aenian Clan—”
“Aenian House,” corrects Vonacht. “Her father is Aenslem, the head of the Merchanting Council in Swartheld.”
“She’s said to be charming in private, but terrified in large groups,” adds Ascaar.
“Quite charming, I might add, and quiet, but far from terrified,” offers a heavyset merchanter attired in a pale lavender overtunic trimmed in deep green. “Lord Lerial, I’m Mesphaes, a shameless factor in wines and other spirits, with a claim on having the best distilleries in Afrit, if not in all Hamor. If I might have a word with you…”
Lerial looks to see Vonacht, but the stipended commander winks, grins, and eases away, drawing Ascaar with him.
“You might,” Lerial say amiably, “if you’ll first tell me a bit about the lady. I don’t even know her name.”
“Haesychya,” replies Mesphaes. “She is fair and slender, with hair the color of pale strawberry wine. Other than that, I can say little, because she reputedly also says very little, except in the privacy of the palace and among family and close friends. That is a trait that runs in the House of Aenian.”
“Thank you … and what did you have in mind?”
“The possibility of a letter of introduction to a factor of influence in Cigoerne.”
Lerial offers an embarrassed smile. “I could offer you a letter of introduction to my father, but not to a factor of influence. I was never trained in trading and factoring, and I’ve been away from Cigoerne most of the last six years.”
“One would think…” Mesphaes shakes his head ruefully. “Without trade and tariffs, a land cannot long survive.”
Lerial nods. “I agree. So does my father, but we remain slightly removed from the affairs of trade. So long as traders and merchanters pay their tariffs and obey the laws, the duke and his ministers do not become involved. Disputes go to a justicer. Although the duke may review a decision, seldom is a justicer’s finding overturned.”
For several long moments, Mesphaes is silent.
Lerial keeps a pleasant expression on his face, but does not speak.
Finally, the merchanter shakes his head once more. “Even without an introduction, it appears as though I should look into the possibility of opening a factorage in Cigoerne.”
“You are in spirits.” Lerial pauses. “You might inquire of the widow of Majer Altyrn about the possibility of purchasing some of the dark lager they brew in Teilyn. I’ve not had anything like it—not so far—here in Afrit.”
A smile crosses the merchanter’s face. “Is she attractive?”
“Very. But as a lady long consorted to a man she adored and most recently widowed, I doubt her inclinations will be romantic. The lager, however, is likely to prove profitable.”
“Have you other … information?”
“There are a number of factoring houses in Cigoerne. Most I know little of, but I would be most wary of Myrapol House.” Now that Veraan has taken over running the factoring house founded by his late mother, Lerial isn’t about to recommend it.
“Oh?”
“It’s quite successful, but … I question some of the basis of that success.” There is something else about Myrapol … but Lerial cannot remember what that might be.
Mesphaes nods. “I appreciate that information.”
“Still trying to get the first opportunities, Mesphaes?” The new speaker is an angular man a good half a head shorter than Lerial.
“Why would I do otherwise, Khaythor?” The spirits merchanter turns to Lerial. “Khaythor is renowned for his wit and his ability to procure and mill any kind of timber known to man. Well, except camma wood. That’s too dangerous for a mill.”
“Too dangerous to grow. We thin those whenever we see one.”