“I must confess that I do have some such interests. Now … what about a known obvious and an insignificant unknown in return?”
“The known obvious is that I am the second son of the duke of Cigoerne and an overcaptain in the Mirror Lancers. An insignificant unknown? I spent a summer and more digging irrigation trenches on the lands of Majer Altyrn.”
“I will accept that, gratefully,” replies Fhastal with a smile more like the grin of a satisfied mountain cat, “although I would not term it insignificant.”
“I only returned in kind.”
Graemaald stiffens slightly at Lerial’s words, while Rhamuel shows the slightest hint of a nod.
Fhastal laughs, if almost softly.
When the laughter ends, Lerial says, “Tell me what others know. In how many towns and cities are your countinghouses … those sorts of matters.”
“That I can do … willingly. There are large houses in Swartheld and Shaelt, and smaller ones in Luba and Guasyra. The main house is in Shaelt. We have very small houses in Dolari, Kysha, Nubyat, and, of course, Cigoerne…”
Fhastal has a countinghouse in Cigoerne. That, Lerial had not known, but he had no reason to know. He nods, thinking. Might that be how Emerya has sent letters to Rhamuel all these years?
“Those houses outside Afrit … would it not be risky for them to hold much in the way of golds or silvers?”
“Not so long as the countinghouses from Merowey and Heldya operate in Afrit,” returns Fhastal.
That also makes a sort of sense to Lerial. “And family … they are involved?”
“Both daughters and two of my sons.”
“Daughters…” murmurs Graemaald.
“There are some transactions better suited to women, dear friend,” replies Fhastal, although the gentleness of the phrase “dear friend” suggests courtesy rather than friendship, it seems to Lerial.
After more talk of the countinghouses, Rhamuel clears his throat and looks at Lerial. “Perhaps you could enlighten Graemaald and Fhastal on what Cigoerne is like these days.”
“I’d be more than happy to do so, but you must realize you’ll be seeing it through the eyes of a Lancer officer and not a merchanter.”
“That will be far better than no eyes or a faded memory.”
Lerial doubts Rhamuel’s memory has faded in the least, but he nods and begins. “As I told the arms-commander earlier, Cigoerne has grown greatly in the past five years…”
By the time the dinner is finally over, and Lerial, Ascaar, and Rhamuel are riding back to the post, Lerial can only hope he did not reveal anything he will regret, because his head is swimming with details and partly remembered faces and conversations.
And what you’ll likely face in Swartheld will be far worse.
XXI
Once they reach Shaelt Post, just before they dismount, Lerial turns to Ascaar. “If you have a moment later … there are some details.”
Ascaar nods, although there is a hint of a smile in his eyes. “Half a glass in your quarters? They’re better than mine.”
“That would be fine.”
Lerial meets briefly with Fheldar and his officers, but all is as well as can be expected, and he makes his way to his quarters, thinking about several things. First, there is the question about why not a single person at the dinner mentioned the battles at Luba. Nor did anyone mention the assassination of Valatyr. The second might be because neither Lerial nor Rhamuel mentioned it … but Lerial has to wonder. As for the first, the impact on all the merchanters in Afrit would have been enormous had the Heldyans succeeded in gaining a foothold on the west side of the river … and no one had said anything.
Lerial is still puzzling over the strangeness of what was not mentioned at the dinner when he hears a knock. He checks his shields and renews them, then moves to the door and opens it.
Ascaar stands there holding a pitcher of lager and two beakers. “I thought you might like something to drink. It’s not nearly what the arms-commander can offer, but it’s not bad.”
“It’s very welcome … and I am thirsty.” Lerial closes the door behind Ascaar and walks over to stand by one of the two armchairs.
The subcommander sets the beakers and pitcher on the low table between the chairs, turns one chair so that the chairs almost face, and settles himself. Lerial checks the pitcher and beakers with his order-senses, then fills both beakers two-thirds full, before sitting and gesturing to Ascaar to take a beaker.
The subcommander does, taking a swallow. Then he looks at Lerial. “Details … or what you heard or didn’t hear at the dinner? Or something else.”
“All that.” Lerial drinks some of the lager. “This is better than you said.” He sets the beaker on the low table. “On the ride back from Graemaald’s villa, I finally realized what bothered me about the dinner, something I couldn’t put my finger on at the time.”