“Jhosef doesn’t much care for chaos. It curdles his milk, his cheeses,” says Atroyan.
“And everything else,” adds Jhosef. “Taints beef and mutton, too. Don’t care much for the tainted.”
For just an instant, Lerial thinks, the corners of Aenslem’s mouth almost curl into a sneer, while a faint hint of an ironic smile appears momentarily on Rhamuel’s lips.
From the comments, Lerial has gained the impression that practically all types of goods produced or traded in Swartheld, and many services, such as shipping, are controlled by one or two family trading houses. The only merchanting house in Cigoerne to compare with that, so far as Lerial knows, is Myrapol … and Veraan would certainly fit in with those around the table.
“Chaos is bad for almost anything in trade,” Maesoryk points out.
Even Aenslem nods to that. Rhamuel offers an enigmatic smile.
“Here comes dinner,” announces Atroyan.
Each diner is served half a small game hen, deeply browned, so that the skin is crispy, garnished with sliced honeyed pearapples, and accompanied with what Lerial guesses must be truffled rice, but a kind he has never seen before.
“Pearapples, no less,” declares Jhosef. “How did you come by those at this time of year?”
Atroyan grins and looks to Aenslem. “I have my sources. They know some traders from Merowey who infuse the pearapples with a honey liqueur that preserves them.”
“Quite good,” declares Jhosef.
Lerial thinks so as well, although his first bite of the unfamiliar rice is small, because he does not know what to expect, but he finds it tasty, although a touch saltier than he would ideally like. He is happy to eat and listen as the others talk about how to keep chaos out of goods, ships, warehouses, and the like.
“You’ve not said much, Lord Lerial,” says Maesoryk after a time.
“It’s more interesting to listen. Besides, what little I know deals with weapons and battle. Those are scarcely suited to such a meal, or those attending.”
“Will you follow the path of the duke’s brother and become the arms-commander of Cigoerne?” asks Maesoryk.
“That is a position my father holds. So long as he is duke that is his decision. When my brother becomes duke, and we both hope that is not any time soon, it will be his decision.”
“You’re sounding more like a merchanter than a man of arms,” comments Maesoryk.
“That might be because the best of both know when not to exceed their knowledge,” adds Aenslem in his deep rough voice. “Or to reveal what is not to their advantage. Tell me, Maesoryk, how much profit do you make on each amphora or each roof tile. Surely you know, down to the last portion of a copper.”
“Your point is well taken.” Maesoryk laughs genially. “Enough, or I wouldn’t be here. The same is true of all of us, save the three at the head of the table.”
“And we would not be here without the success of the merchanters in our respective duchies,” adds Lerial.
“That makes an excellent point to change the conversation to a subject I’d appreciate,” declares Atroyan, raising his voice and looking down the table. “Since we have Mesphaes here, and we seldom do, I’d like his opinion on the best wines.”
“Best, Your Grace, is often a matter of debate, and I will be pleased to give you my opinions in a moment.” The spirits merchant smiles. “I would say first, that more of the honored merchanters here at the table prefer red wines to white, and that the two red wines that most prefer are the better vintages of the Reoman or the Chalbec. The two whites that are most preferred are the Halyn and the Vhanyt. Personally, I prefer the cask-aged Reoman and the reserve Vhanyt.”
“You didn’t express a preference for the Reoman or the Vhanyt,” Atroyan points out.
“My preference is for the Reoman with beef and mutton, and the Vhanyt with fish and fowl. Because I do not like to switch from red to white, or the other way, I prefer to begin my evening refreshment with whichever fits the meal. I will, of course, take either of my favorites over a noticeably inferior vintage … if I have the choice. If I don’t, I will enjoy the best of what is available.”
Lerial cannot but note that Mesphaes has picked Atroyan’s favorite red … and not the white apparently favored by Rhamuel.
“What about the Cyandran white?” asks Lhugar.
“Or the amber Noorn?” suggests Jhosef.
“That’s a wine so perfumed with peach that it’s what merchanters’ press-gangs prefer,” declares Aenslem.
“They add sleeping draughts to it in low inns and taverns so as to drug unsuspecting young men and press them into ship’s crews,” explains Rhamuel quietly in response to Lerial’s raised eyebrows.
“Good Noorn is too dear for that,” counters Jhosef.
“What about the golden Chelios?” asks someone farther down the table.
While Lerial does not exactly relax, he is far more comfortable as the discussion of the various vintages proceeds, and trusts that the rest of the dinner will continue in the same pleasant but only marginally informative fashion.