“And Maesoryk is still benefiting from the law?”
“So is everyone else,” replies Rhamuel almost sardonically as they enter the dining room. “Swartheld hasn’t had any large fires since.” He nods toward the table. “You’re on his right.”
“And you’re on the left?”
“Always.” After a moment, Rhamuel murmurs, “Aenslem will be beside you, and Maesoryk across from you.”
Lerial stands behind his chair until everyone is in position. Then Atroyan seats himself, followed by everyone else. Lerial notes that Lhugar is beside Aenslem, and another merchanter Lerial has not seen before, a heavy-lidded but narrow-faced man with thinning brown hair whose strands droop across a high forehead, is beside Maesoryk.
Once everyone has a full goblet or crystal beaker, Atroyan clears his throat. He does not stand, but lifts his goblet. “I’d like to thank you all for coming, and for doing so with little notice. On the other hand, it may be the only time in your lives where you can have dinner with not only a duke, but two younger sons to duchies … and, no offense to either, but I’d prefer they remain younger sons.” He pauses to allow a few chuckles to subside. “I’m always mindful of what makes a land strong, particularly Afrit, and that’s the skill and devotion of those who pay the tariffs to support the harbor and the river patrols, and the Afritan Guard. My brother, of course, is particularly glad for the support of the latter.” Another pause allows more chuckles. “I’m glad for all the support, and for your tireless efforts, not only to amass golds, but to continue to use some of it to pay your tariffs … so that we can put an end to the attempts by a certain duke to the east to impoverish it all. And, of course, we’re also here to commend the arms-commander and Lord Lerial for their success in defeating the Heldyans at Luba … which they accomplished most effectively.” Atroyan smiles broadly. “With that … well … enjoy the fare and the company.” He sips from his goblet, then lowers it.
Lerial slowly looks down the table. He has the feeling that he is missing something or someone. Fhastal! At the dinner at Shaelt, Rhamuel had introduced him as one of the foremost merchanters in either Shaelt or Swartheld.
The servers place small plates before each diner, on which thinly sliced strips of ham alternate with slivers of what must be an orangish fruit or vegetable.
“Ham and loquats,” murmurs someone.
Lerial watches for a moment and notes the other diners wrapping the thin ham slices around the fruit. He does the same … and finds the semisweet taste intriguing, and not unpleasant. In fact, he finds that he has finished the entire plate.
“Lord Lerial,” Maesoryk offers warmly, but not obsequiously or loudly, “it is a pleasure to meet you. It’s good to know that Cigoerne understands the dangers posed by Duke Khesyn … and that Afrit and Cigoerne can stand against him.” The merchanter’s smile is modest, but seemingly open, and his warm brown eyes match his mouth.
“It’s very much in Cigoerne’s interest that Afrit prevail in any struggle with Heldya,” replies Lerial. “My father has been quite clear about that.”
“He’s always shown he has good sense. So did the empress. I regret that I never met her and that I was absent from Swartheld during the brief time your father was here. But then, we were both rather young then.” He laughs jovially. “Enjoy your youth. It departs more quickly than you’ll ever have thought possible.”
In some ways, it already has. “I appreciate your thoughts on that. I’d like to say more … but I’m afraid that, if I do, I’ll reveal too much that I don’t know.”
From beside Lerial, Aenslem guffaws, then says, “How do you like that, Maesoryk?”
“He says it better than I could have when I was his age … and certainly better than I can now.”
“If I pretend to believe that,” replies Aenslem in a genially rough voice, “will you give me a better break on the next consignment of amphorae?”
“I’ll pretend to.”
Lerial cannot help but smile, as does Rhamuel, if ironically. Atroyan maintains a pleasant expression, not quite a smile.
“Well then, I’ll pretend to give you a break on shipping that gray clay you want from Atla.”
“For what you charge, you should be shipping it from Nordla or Spidlar.”
Despite the genial bantering, Lerial can sense the undercurrents that are anything but friendly.
“So what do you think of them all now, Lord Lerial?” asks Lhugar dryly.
“We’re all friends. It’s all in jest,” replies Maesoryk in his warm and winning voice. “How else dare we make our points?”
There’s some truth in that. “Better with friendly barbed words than barbed iron,” Lerial comments, dryly, adding after the slightest pause, “or chaos and blades.” The only one who reacts is the merchanter he does not know, who shakes his head, just slightly and almost sadly.