“Thank you.”
After waiting a bit more, Lerial sets out for the duke’s study. He arrives promptly and is immediately ushered in.
Atroyan, wearing what Lerial thinks must be the formal crimson uniform of the Afritan Guard, rises from behind the wide—and empty—table desk. He frowns. “No dress uniform?”
“I didn’t anticipate coming to Swartheld, ser. Then, it was rather late to send for a dress uniform.”
“Well … no one will be able to tell for certain.” The duke straightens. “We should go. Oh … before I forget. There is another function tomorrow evening. You’ll get a formal invitation later. Seventh glass. Now … how are you finding Swartheld?” He walks to the study door.
“Besides rather larger than Cigoerne? There are a number of differences. You have an excellent deepwater harbor and a much more extensive merchanting quarter. The palace is enormous. Your consort is most gracious, and you’ve certainly been welcoming. My men are well housed and well fed.” Lerial almost says something about what else he could ask for, but catches himself. He still wonders about the “other function.”
“Good. Good.”
“Might I ask who will be attending the reception and dinner?”
“Oh … I told you it would be the most important merchanters, and, of course, my brother the arms-commander.”
“You did, ser, but since I am not from Afrit and know almost nothing about Swartheld, I have no idea who the most important merchanters might be.”
“So you wouldn’t. So you wouldn’t. Let’s see. The most important is Aenslem. He’s the head of the Merchanting Council, not to mention Haesychya’s father. Then there’s Maesoryk; he has most of the kilns in Afrit, the good ones, everything from fine porcelain to … well … chamber pots. I think you may have met Mesphaes … no?”
“I met him in Shaelt.”
“He’s one of the few who’s not from Swartheld, but since Rhamuel said he’d be at his place here, nothing to compare to his villa in Shaelt, I hear, I thought he should be present…”
Rhamuel must have arranged that …
“… and then there’s Alaphyn … he’s mostly a shipper, not so many vessels as Aenslem, but more than anyone else. As a matter of fact, there’s not really anyone else … and, I almost forgot, there’s Lhugar. He has the largest interest in the ironworks at Luba…”
Lerial nods and listens to other names he hopes he can remember while they walk down the main staircase of the east wing of the palace.
When they near the reception room, Atroyan says, “Get a glass or beaker of what you want first. You likely won’t have a chance later, not without appearing rude, or having to accept whatever someone thrusts at you.”
There are already several men in the reception room; the only two Lerial recognizes are Rhamuel and Mesphaes. Like his brother, Rhamuel wears a dress uniform without rank insignia. Neither the arms-commander nor the spirits merchanter moves toward the duke or Lerial. The two other men in the room, attired in formal overtunics, one of a deep blue, the other of a muted maroon, immediately turn to face Atroyan, nodding and even bowing slightly. “Duke Atroyan…”
At the two approach, Lerial has the feeling that he is a bit underdressed for the occasion. But who would have thought … Except his mother had hinted at it. Still, the thought of packing a dress uniform off to battle …
“Merchanter Lhugar, Merchanter Nahaan … might I present you to Lord Lerial? He’s not only the younger heir to Cigoerne, but a most effective commander of Mirror Lancers who did us the signal honor of wiping out a battalion or so of Heldyan invaders and driving even more back to Heldya. At Luba, you know.”
Both merchanters nod.
Then Nahaan smiles apologetically, and without a word Atroyan walks toward the sideboard serving wine, Nahaan at his elbow.
“What will you be drinking, Lord Lerial?” asks Lhugar.
“Pale lager.” Lerial notes that the merchanter’s hands are empty. “Will you join me?”
“Naturally.”
Once Lerial has a pale lager and Lhugar a very dark brew, the two stand before an open window, through which blows a slight, but welcome, breeze.
“You’re in ironworks, if I heard the duke correctly.”
“More accurately, we’re in ironworks. The ducal family has a four-tenths interest in the ironworks my family and his own and that we operate.”
“Oh … I didn’t know that.”
“Most people don’t, but it’s no secret.”
In a fashion, that makes sense, Lerial thinks, especially in a land of merchanters, which Afrit certainly is. “You just smelt and process the iron into lengths and plates, then, and sell it to others?”
“We do pig iron, plates, and rods. The only finished things we sell are nails. Everyone needs nails.”