“He remains in overall command, ser. He has left most of the daily patrolling that he once did to Lephi and me.”
“Wise man. Fortunate man, too.” A brighter smile crosses the duke’s face, although his right eye twitches several times. “I should formally welcome you to Afrit and Swartheld … and I do. We must talk more in a less formal setting. You’ll have refreshments and then dinner with the family tonight, I would hope.”
“I’d be honored and delighted, ser.”
“Excellent! Excellent. Half past fifth glass in the family salon.” Atroyan nods once more. “I will see you then.”
“Thank you, ser. I look forward to that.” Lerial inclines his head politely once more. He does not intend to back out of the chamber, but neither does he wish to immediately turn his back on the duke. He compromises by taking two steps backward, inclining his head once more, and then turning and walking to the door—which opens as he nears it, suggesting that the outer door guard, or someone, has been watching.
Since it is just after fourth glass, Lerial has more than a little time, and not that much to do, before he is expected at the duke’s family salon … wherever that may be. Once the receiving room door is closed, he turns to his escort. “If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate a tour of the palace, not anywhere private, just so that I have a general idea where most places are that I might have to be.”
“Ah … yes, ser.”
“I’m supposed to meet the duke at the family salon later. Could you take us there, or reasonably close?”
“Yes, ser. As I can, ser.”
The one area it is clear he will not tour is the southeastern section of the fourth level, which is blocked off with heavy barrels. Lerial approaches the stacked barrels, all of which appear to be recently coopered, so recently that there is still an odd woody odor, something like a cross between cork and cinnamon. But the wood of neither tree is suitable for making barrels.
Maybe that’s incense to mute the smells of the ongoing work. Beyond the barrels, stacked two deep, he sees two palace guards, and beyond them a carpenter working on a crown molding.
Lerial nods and turns away, following his guide.
Just walking around the third and fourth levels of the palace takes more than a glass, but Lerial has a far better idea of the layout of the massive palace. The duke’s family quarters appear to comprise essentially the southern half of the “east palace’s” fourth level. Beyond that, Lerial gains the impression that a great many chambers, just on the two upper levels, are essentially empty or at best, used only occasionally, and in places there is a certain odor of mustiness. Even so, the time it takes just to walk around two levels emphasizes just how large the palace is. Certainly, all the chambers on all three levels of his father’s palace in Cigoerne would easily fit just within one of the upper levels of Swartheld palace.
By the time he approaches the family salon, a few moments before the appointed time, Lerial has spent more than enough time walking along corridors seemingly populated only by a palace guard or two or a servant hurrying one way or another.
He enters the family salon, past yet another guard, through a recessed archway. As soon as he steps into the chamber, he can see that it is far more cheerful than what else he has seen of the palace. The walls are plaster painted the palest shade of rose, and the far end has a set of double glass-paned doors that open onto a terrace facing the bay. There is a large oval carpet with a design of interwoven foliage and flowers in shades of rose and soft brown. Where the carpet does not cover the floor, the wood is also a polished light brown, as is the wood from which the furniture is made. All the chairs and settees are upholstered in rose, and there are two sideboards, on which are crystal goblets and beakers, and a number of crystal pitchers as well, with what appear to be red and white wines, as well as light and dark lager.
“Lord Lerial, welcome.” The greeting comes from the single person in the room, a slender woman with blond hair carrying a tint of rose, rather than the strawberry Mesphaes had mentioned. She does not wear a head scarf, but then, the palace is her home. Her eyes are a surprising black. Despite the fact that she must be at least the age of his mother, Lerial can see no hint of gray in her hair.
“Lady Haesychya … Thank you.” Lerial inclines his head. “And please, no ‘Lord.’”
“Then … no ‘Lady,’ either.”
“As you wish,” Lerial replies as warmly and gently as he can.
“Having heard of your exploits, I had forgotten how young you are. I suspect Kyedra has as well.”