“You don’t have any iron-mages, then?”
Lhugar smiles and shakes his head. “There’s no need, unless you want black iron, and not many do. Besides, mages are rare in Afrit. Always have been. There’s not much sense in spending golds to make something almost no one wants. Your sire likely has more iron-mages than all the rest of Hamor.” He pauses. “I’d wager you don’t arm your lancers with black-iron blades.”
“You’re right about that,” Lerial replies lightly. “I don’t know that anyone else does, either.”
“Cupridium’s another thing. Can your iron-mages work it?”
Why is he interested in cupridium? It’s really only useful for weapons for chaos-mages and white wizards … or for blocking chaos-fire … or the chaos-lances that we can’t even build anymore. “I suppose they could. It takes so much effort to make it, though, that it’s seldom used anymore. Might I ask…?”
“There are always those who are interested. Your father got quite a few golds for what he sold when he dismantled that old fireship. Quite a few. Probably more than he collected in tariffs for years. If people want something, it never hurts to see if it’s available.” Lhugar pauses as another merchanter approaches, then says, “If ever … I can get a good price for it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Lord Lerial, Khamyst.” The newly arrived merchanter wears an overtunic of a green so dark it verges on black.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Khamyst.” Even repeating the man’s name doesn’t recall anything for Lerial.
“The duke won’t have mentioned me, and you’d have no reason to know who I am.”
Lerial smiles as winningly as he can. “Then you must give me one.”
“Well said. I will. I’m the one everyone needs and everyone wants to forget. We’re the ones who handle rendering and tallow and candles and hides and leather. We do it well away from Swartheld so that no one suffers.”
“And you do it well and are paid well,” suggests Lerial.
“Well enough to belong to the Merchanting Council.”
Lerial nods, not sure exactly what he should say.
“Most people think of tallow for poor folk’s candles, but a lot of what we render goes to Lhugar’s plate mills.”
Lerial has no idea what Khamyst means, and it must show, because the merchanter grins and adds, “It keeps the rollers from seizing up.”
Lhugar has rolling mills? Lerial had thought the only mills like that had been lost with the fall of Cyador.
“Have to admit, Lhugar stole the idea—well, his grandsire did—from Cyador. Not fancy, the way those were, but somehow they got it to work.”
“Trying to corner Lord Lerial, are you, Khamyst?” asks yet another merchanter, holding a full goblet of a dark red wine.
Lerial realizes that he has not even taken a sip of his lager, and does so, before looking to the pudgy and short blond man likely not more than a handful of years older than Lerial himself. “He’s been most polite, and you are?”
“Haensyn.”
“Haensyn represents the House of Haen…” begins Khamyst.
“… since his mother is not properly a merchanter,” murmurs Lhugar.
Lerial only hopes he can keep everything straight in his mind, but smiles and nods once more.
Before that long, but not before Lerial has exchanged pleasantries with three other merchanters, a set of chimes rings, presumably to announce the time for the dinner itself. As the merchanters move toward the dining room, Rhamuel appears, seemingly out of nowhere, although Lerial has not seen him except at the beginning of the reception, talking to Mesphaes. “How did your ride through Swartheld go?”
“Through a small portion of Swartheld,” Lerial replies with a laugh. “It was useful to learn where things are. I do have a question, though.”
“Yes?”
“How did your great-grandsire come up with the idea of requiring tile roofs for every dwelling and building in Swartheld?”
“Fires,” replies Rhamuel. “So we were told when we were boys. After the merchanting quarter burned down—that’s why all the buildings there are so well planned and the avenue is wider and paved—after that, he issued the law. Every new building had to have a tile roof, and all factorages and shops that didn’t already have tile roofs had to reroof with tile in two years. Houses had from five to ten years, depending on where they were.”
“It sounds like he thought it out.”
“He did, but not that way. He’d borrowed golds to pay the Guard because he’d kept tariffs low to please the merchants. After the fire, he couldn’t depend on tariffs to repay the golds. So he issued the law.”
“He borrowed the golds from the merchanters who made the tiles?”
“No, but he could tariff the tiles, and the law made it certain that the tariffs were sufficient to cover the payments.” Rhamuel shakes his head. “After the merchanters recovered, he did raise all tariffs. He died within the year, but our grandsire only reduced the tariffs a pittance.”