“Where those of more than modest means and rank also dwell?”
“More than modest second sons, mainly. Had the duke not requested your presence here, I would have turned my dwelling over to you.”
That surprises Lerial, although he can sense none of the chaos a blatant untruth often creates. “I appreciate that.”
“It would be the least I could do.”
Two of the palace guards appear on the far side of the gates. Beyond the gates is a larger courtyard, far larger, a good two hundred yards wide and a hundred deep, beyond which rises the palace, a redstone edifice of four levels, almost the width of the courtyard, and appearing to extend even farther than that to the west.
Rhamuel gestures to the pair of guards. “We follow them to a position below the receiving balcony.”
“The duke will receive us there?”
Rhamuel shakes his head. “You’ll get an initial welcome from Dafaal. He’s the duke’s personal scrivener and aide. He welcomes all visitors to the palace and escorts them to their quarters before they meet with Atroyan.”
“What about my men?”
“They’ll be quartered in chambers on the other side of the corridor from you. That’s the usual arrangement for the few truly important visitors.”
Just another indication of the size of the palace.
Once they rein up below the second-level balcony, less than two yards above Lerial’s head, a white-haired man, attired largely in black, but with a crimson scarf around his neck, steps out onto the narrow balcony. He smiles and begins to speak with a deep and resonant voice at odds with his almost frail appearance.
“On behalf of His Mightiness the Duke Atroyan of Afrit, I bid you welcome, Lord Lerial of Cigoerne. On behalf of the duke, I extend all privileges and graces for the duration of your stay. Both the arms-commander and I remain at your service.”
Lerial can sense a certain surprise in Rhamuel at the last phrase, but says nothing, although he has the feeling that Rhamuel may not be totally pleased at being placed in Lerial’s service, so to speak. Then, sensing that some reply is required, Lerial inclines his head, then responds. “I deeply appreciate the warmth and hospitality offered by the duke and look forward to closer relations between Afrit and Cigoerne.”
The briefest frown appears on Dafaal’s brow, then vanishes, as if Lerial had not been expected to offer anything substantive in reply. “I will meet you at the palace stables, Lord Lerial. I’m certain that Arms-Commander Rhamuel can show you the way.” Dafaal smiles, then retreats.
“Pompous old bastard,” murmurs Rhamuel. “Good-hearted, though.” He raises his voice as he continues. “It’s shorter if we ride past the entrance. It’s actually the rear entrance, but the front one is never open except for the handful of formal balls my brother holds here in the winter and early spring.” Rhamuel urges his mount forward and to the left.
Lerial follows, saying, “I take it that he has a summer retreat, then? Besides Lubana?”
“He hasn’t been to Lubana in years. He and Haesychya prefer his villa at Lake Reomer. They usually depart by the middle of spring, earlier if the weather is hot, but no later than the first eightday of summer.”
But will they this year? With the threats posed by Khesyn? Lerial knows that question will have to wait.
The inner courtyard, at least in the area to the east of the palace, is almost empty except for two men cleaning the windows of the palace and those in the combined forces of Rhamuel and Lerial. Even when they ride around the south end of the palace and under an arched stone bridge that offers access to the terraced gardens stepped down the hillside away from the palace, Lerial sees only two stableboys and an older man, presumably an ostler, standing before the building on the southwestern part of the inner courtyard, away from the palace proper.
“The household stables,” notes Rhamuel.
Lerial glances from the stables to his right, observing that a narrower structure extends perhaps another hundred yards from the broader section that held the receiving balcony, then again widens into another broader section that faces westward. “It’s almost two palaces connected by a third.”
“You could say that,” admits Rhamuel, reining up before the main stable door. “It all looks the same once you’re inside. Large rooms and small ones, all off seemingly endless hallways. Far too much crimson and gilt.” The arms-commander dismounts. “I’m off to brief the duke. We’ll all likely have dinner together, but one never knows.” He glances toward the palace. “Here comes Dafaal.”
Lerial dismounts quickly. “Until later, then.”
Rhamuel nods, then hands the reins of his mount to one of the stableboys.
“Lord Lerial, ser…” offers the ostler who steps forward.
“Thank you.” Lerial hands the reins of the gelding to him.