He’d worked in the harbor forts, but he’d never realized that they had been built after the burning of Brysta in the time of Elzart, the fourth Lord West, by a punitive expedition from Sarronnyn, because a Sarronnese trading ship had been sunk at the pier and the crew abused by Elzart and his men.
“Ser?” Erdyl stood in the library door.
“Yes?”
“You have a message from Lord West, ser.” Erdyl raised the envelope.
Even from halfway across the library, Kharl could see the blue ribbons and gold wax of the seal. “Let’s see when I meet with him-or if he’s putting me off.”
“I would judge that he will meet with you. It costs him nothing.” Erdyl crossed the library and tendered the missive.
Kharl took it. He wasn’t that inclined to be charitable to Lord West-or his sons-but Erdyl was probably right about that. The name on the outside was impressive: Lord Kharl of Cantyl, Envoy of Lord Ghrant, Ruler and Potentate of Nordla.
Kharl slit the envelope with his belt knife. Before opening the envelope, he paused, looking down at the knife. It felt strange, as though it were pushing away from his fingers. He looked at the blade with his order-senses. It was ordered enough, and yet … there was a sense of something, not quite like chaos. He sheathed the knife before extracting the short but heavy parchment, also sealed at the bottom.
Lord Kharl of Cantyl,
His mightiness, Ostcrag, Lord of the Western Quadrant, will receive you and your credentials at the third glass of the morning on twoday, an eightday from today, in the small receiving room of the Quadrant Keep.
Except for the signature and seal, that was all. Kharl studied the signature-Osten,for his sire, Lord Ostcrag. Kharl nodded. After Erdyl’s visit to the Quadrant Keep, he wasn’t surprised, and he wouldn′t be at all surprised if Osten were there. He’d have to consider what to do if Lord West-or, more properly, he guessed, Ostcrag, Lord West-were not there. He handed the missive back to Erdyl.
Erdyl swallowed. “The brevity, that’s almost a snub … an insult. So is the early-morning time, and the signature.”
“I’m not insulted. So long as I present my credentials to Ostcrag, it doesn’t matter to me.”
“I suppose not,” replied the secretary. “It’s not as though they’d tell anyone. It would make them look small. But they’re counting on your not saying anything.”
“Of course.” Kharl laughed. “If I say anything, then I’m the one who looks small.”
“That is true.”
“Make sure that the silver box is polished just before I leave on the morning of the audience. We should not forget the token of Lord Ghrant’s esteem.” Not when so much thought and care had gone into it.
“Yes, ser. It will be ready.”
Kharl set Lord West’s reply aside. “Do you know how close to today this history goes?”
“It was written close to thirty years ago, ser.”
“Too bad there isn’t a more current history, but I suppose writing about any ruler is dangerous while the ruler is still alive. At least one that is accurate.” Kharl’s lips twisted into a crooked smile.
“Any history written about the near past would have to curry favor.”
“Why else would it be written?” asked Kharl.
“You are a most cynical envoy, Lord Kharl.”
“Most realistic, young Erdyl. I’ve seen men considered most honorable murder innocents when they were stopped from having their way with unwilling women, and I’ve seen so-called equally honorable men look the other way.”
“That’s something I wouldn’t know, ser.”
“Have you looked that closely?” Kharl fixed his eyes on his secretary.
Erdyl looked away.
Kharl half regretted pressing the young man, but for all his upbringing it was clear that there was much he had not seen, or had chosen not to see.
Then, that was true of all young men. It had been true of Arthal, and Kharl had not been so understanding as he might have been. He moistened his lips, and paused. “There are matters we would all choose not to see,” he added more gently, after a moment, “but the cost of doing so here is far too high. Then, it’s high anywhere.”
Erdyl nodded, if hesitantly.
“Tell me about the other history, the one on Hamor,” Kharl said cheerfully.
LXIV
On threeday, which dawned cloudy, and slightly cooler, Kharl did not attempt to visit the Hall of Justice, but took a longer and slower carriage tour of Brysta, one that lasted until almost noon. The streets and lanes were not empty, but neither were they bustling, and there were few young women about, and none without escorts of some sort.
Had the word about Egen’s proclivities come to circulate through the city, or had enough people observed the actions of Lord West’s youngest that it was unspoken and common knowledge? Kharl suspected the latter.
Likewise, he saw no beggars, and no one idling on the streets or visible in the alleys and serviceways. While there had always been few, there had been some. For a time, Kharl had been one of them. Now there were none … or they were most well hidden.
After returning to the residence, Kharl summoned Erdyl.
The secretary hurried into the study. “Ser?”
“I have another errand for you. I’d like you to stop by several of the cloth factors and weavers. There are two on Crafters’ Lane around Fifth Cross. Those are Derdan and Gharan. Then there’s Soret. Fundal can give you directions for him.”
“Yes, ser.” Erdyl paused. “Am I to order something?”
“No. You’re to ask about cloth, about the special maroon color used in the patrollers’ uniforms, and anything you can find out about who wove it or where it came from.”
“Ser?”
“Those uniforms are new in the last year, and there are a lot more patrollers than there used to be. If we start asking about that …″
“Yes, ser. But if I ask about the cloth and color … and ask who could supply so much … that sort of thing.”
“That’s right. Look and see if any of them have added weavers or let them go. If the cloth came from Hamor, then it might have an effect.”
“Yes, ser. You want me to start this afternoon?”
Kharl nodded. “After we eat. You’ll have to ride. Try to notice as much as you can.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Let’s go eat.”
After eating a light midday meal, Kharl checked the ledgers once more, then read sections of the History of Hamor, a thick book that began with the legends of the founders who fled the demons of Candar in search of a better life.
“Why is everyone who opposes a people a demon?” mumbled Kharl to himself. “Or is it just whoever opposes the people of the writer?”
From what he had read so far, the founders of Hamor had fled the ancient chaos-wizards of Cyador, then promptly created a land modeled on Cyador, while denying it all the while-and that was if the writers of the history happened to be accurate. Kharl had his doubts, long before he laid aside the history to get ready for his foray into refreshments with the Sarronnese envoy.
At slightly before the fourth glass of the afternoon, Mantar halted the carriage under the portico of the Sarronnese envoy’s residence as the four bells from the back bay tower finished echoing across the upper hillside.
Demyst held the carriage door as Kharl stepped out.
“We’ll be waiting with the carriage, Lord Kharl,” Demyst announced.
″Thank you.″ Kharl walked toward the wide white marble steps, where a footman or some sort of attendant in a blue-and-cream uniform waited.