by Karen Miller
“No,” his father said, glowering. “So long as I breathe, I’m still the master here. I won’t have this coddling, Morgan, d’you hear me? I’ve already given Rumm fair warning. I’ll dismiss him out of hand if I have to complain of it again.”
Intemperate or not, he had to counter that. “My lord, you are not going to dismiss Rumm,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. Almost playful. “And even if you did, I’d reinstate him in the next breath.”
“Would you indeed?” His father’s jaw worked, bristled eyebrows jutting. “So you’d lord it over me while there remains a beating heart in my breast?”
“Lord it over you? Never. But I would save you from making a grave mistake. What kind of a son would I be if I didn’t?”
“What kind of a son spits in his father’s eye and declares he’ll overrule him in his own house?”
Morgan bit his tongue on all the things he wanted to say. They’d achieve him nothing, serve only to worsen his father’s increasingly cantankerous mood.
He’s alive to bite your nose off. Remember that and be grateful.
“I am sorry, my lord,” he said, dipping his head in contrition. “I chose my response poorly. Better I should beg your indulgence not to dismiss Rumm. He does me good service, and I would miss him very much.”
Even if he does let Venette trample all over him.
Shirt buttoned, finally, his father let his hands fall to his lap. So small a task as pushing buttons through buttonholes nearly defeated the old man’s strength these days.
“You make a great fuss over nothing, Morgan,” he said, retreating. “I did not say I had dismissed him, only that I take his mumblings against my grain.”
“Then again the fault is mine, for placing more weight on your words than was warranted. I hope Rumm knows his place here is in no real danger?”
“He knows what I want him to know!” his father retorted. “So don’t you go cozening him behind my back, for I’ll know if you do and I’ll not thank you for it.”
Best they step aside this topic altogether. “Your coat, my lord?”
“Yes, yes, I can see it. Wanting to accuse me of blindness now, too, are you?”
If he could keep his temper with Sallis Arkley, he could keep it with his father. “Of course not. But Nydd will be here soon, and I know how much you mislike keeping anyone waiting.”
His father snorted. “So now you’re cozening me, Morgan. Think you’re quite the clever one, don’t you?”
“Clever enough, my lord, but on my best day not near to touching you,” he said, and smiled again, hoping his sweetness would take the sting from the old man’s tongue. Conversing with him had of late become like playing hide and seek with a hornet. “My lord—”
“I know, I know!” his father said, still stinging. “Not that letting Nydd twiddle his thumbs is such a bad thing. It does no good to let these fellows think too highly of their importance.” He wagged a gnarled finger. “Heed that, my clever son. And don’t claim I never gave you a smatter of good advice in your life.”
Since most anything he said would be taken as argumentative, Morgan simply nodded. “No, my lord.”
His father grunted. “And don’t you forget it. Now why are you standing about like a coat rack, Morgan? You look no better than a servant, standing there like that.”
He’s an old man, and he’s dying. Nothing else matters. “Sorry, my lord.”
More than anything he wanted to cast the velvet coat aside and help his father off the bed, but that would cause such grave offence they’d go without speaking for days after. So he stood and watched in pained silence as his father tried to stand and stay standing. Not ’til his third attempt was the old man successful. To save them both, he had to pretend the other tries were figments of his imagination. Risking censure, he stepped to meet his father midway across the chamber’s carpet with the velvet coat outstretched, and then eased him gently into it without revealing the care he took or that he knew full well his father could do little more than hold out one half-lifted arm after the other.
It never should’ve come to this. He should’ve gone to meet death a whole man, in his prime. This slow decay is an undeserved punishment.
For both of them.
Gentled into his blue velvet finery, Lord Danfey suffered to have the old-fashioned coat’s buttons fastened for him, and even permitted his upstart son to rearrange his lace cravat. Its gold-mounted firestone pin flashed in the chamber’s glimlight, a rare display of vanity.
Morgan smiled yet again, hoping his grief was well-disguised. “As ever, my lord, you are the epitome of elegance.”
Halfway down the staircase, his father nudged an elbow to his ribs. “You’re paying close attention to the Garrick girl, I’m told. That is, when you’re not hiding upstairs in your attic.”
And who’d told him? Venette? She simply couldn’t help herself, could she? If she weren’t careful, his interfering friend would soon find herself on the receiving end of his considerable ire.
“Don’t blame the lovely Lady Martain,” his father added. “I wrangled the truth out of Rumm. Had to, didn’t I? You didn’t see fit to tell me.”
The jibe was intended to make him feel guilty, but he had no intention of it. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up, my lord.”
“You’re going to wed her?”
“I am… exploring possibilities,” he said, very careful. “As you requested.” Demanded. But by all means, let us not quibble over semantics. “Why, my lord? Do you mislike the connection?”
His father paused to catch his breath at the next twist of the staircase. “I mislike learning of my son’s courting from a servant.”
Not as much as I do. Believe me.
“I was going to tell you. I was only waiting until you were feeling a little stronger. Ranmer doesn’t want you excited.”
The comment earned him a hot glare. “Don’t think to play this off to my confounded health. I’ll crack you across the ear if you try.”
And his father would, too. In fairness, Greve Danfey could not be called a brutal parent but he had no qualms about raising his fist when provoked.
The glare faded into something less easily withstood. “You should’ve spoken up, Morgan. I’ve been waiting some days for you to confide in me.”
A shade of hurt in his father’s voice. “I am sorry.”
“Well? Do you want the girl or don’t you? A plain answer, this time.”
If only it were as simple as his father imagined. “Maris is young, attractive, unattached and the only daughter of a First Family ranked more highly than ours. I’d be a fool to discount her.”
His father flicked him a look. “But?”
“But every family has its secrets. What do you know of the Garricks?”
“Venette hasn’t given you chapter and verse?”
“I haven’t asked her to. When it comes to Maris Garrick she’s not what you’d call unbiased.”
His father frowned, thinking. “For all their high ranking they’re good mages, but not brilliant. As a family they’re proud. Too proud, to my mind. There’s a son. Ehrig. Six years your senior. Started at the College but was invited to leave before the end of his first year. You won’t remember that. Too young, and it was kept quiet. Caught cheating. A bad business. The wife’s nothing out of the ordinary. Parnel Garrick’s stiff-necked but honest. The son’s misconduct nearly broke him. Some cut him for it. I never did, the rare times I saw him after. Only been in Elvado two years. They started off in the north, you know. The Fifth district.”
Morgan stifled amusement. Trust his father to have a comprehensive knowledge of the Garricks’ history. And it was typically contrary and kind of him, too, not to bruise Parnel Garrick over the actions of his wayward heir. For all he was often a hard man, there could be found in Greve Danfey the occasional impulse toward softness.
“What do you make of the girl’s people?” his father added. “Can you stomach them?”
“I can’t
say,” he said. “So far Lord and Lady Garrick have taken great pains to stay mostly in the background. But it is a mark in their favour that they were granted permission to take up residence in Elvado. The honour’s not lightly come by. As for Maris’s brother…” He shrugged. “I’ve not met him.”
His father raked him with a sharp, considering look. “And still you step sideways around my question.”
“Because I don’t have an easy answer for you, my lord. The best I can say is that I find Maris to be a not unpleasant proposition.”
Which was simply another way of saying that despite the girl’s suitability and charms, on a personal level he felt… indifferent.
His father smoothed the nap of one blue velvet sleeve. “You haven’t made a formal declaration to her?”
And that question stung. “No, my lord. Nor would I without consulting you first. I don’t believe I am that unwieldy a son.”
His father grunted. “As I recall, you rode your horse before the hounds when it came to the Talth girl.”
“Luzena was different,” he said stiffly. “I will not compare her to Maris Garrick.”
There came the sound of footsteps on the staircase below them. Then Rumm’s neatly trimmed head came into sight. Looking up, seeing them, he paused. “My lord, Nydd has arrived.”
Another dyspeptic grunt. “Show him to the library, Rumm. Offer him refreshment. Tea, not sherry. I’ll be there directly.”
Noting that his father’s breathing had eased a little, and that some fresh colour had washed into his cheeks, Morgan took a suggestive step down the staircase. His father’s clawed fingers took him by the forearm, halting him. The old man’s eyes were unnervingly anxious.
“Morgan, can you see yourself abiding with this Maris Garrick?”
“That depends, my lord,” he said, taken aback. In general his father never worried overmuch about his feelings. “Can you? I’d not handfast with any woman of whom you could not approve.”
“The brother’s still distasteful,” said his father, after a thoughtful pause. “But the mother’s inoffensive, and I know far trickier mages than Parnel. You could do a deal worse than his daughter, Morgan. Bring the girl to supper. Let me see her for myself.”
He bowed. “My lord, I shall invite her… but perhaps not too soon. I would not overplay my hand, nor give her permission to indulge in hasty speculation.”
“When do you see her again?”
“Tonight, as it happens. We dine at The Opal.”
That made his father stare. “The Opal’s expensive, Morgan. You don’t think dipping so deep in your purse isn’t overplaying your hand?”
“If I am to wed her, I must court her in some style.”
“Woo her as you see fit, then,” said his father. Deep in his chest, that ominous wheeze. “But if you think she’ll suit, don’t take too long to speak up.”
“My lord,” he said, hiding all distress. “As always, I’ll follow your excellent advice.”
Two hours, just over, it took them to plough through the Danfey accounts and estates. All in all their prospects continued comfortable, was Nydd’s conclusion. Farms, crops, livestock and trading ventures prospered as well as could be expected, the vagaries of life notwithstanding. The three-way trouble with Brantone, Manemli and Ranoush was unfortunate, but none of their traders was in trouble over it, at least. Still, the rumblings would bear close watching. Banditry in Trindek and a long spell of foul weather in Feen had taken a toll on their pressed suswill oil and mageworked leather goods, it was true, but those losses were neatly offset by the new strike of firestones in their Ranoush mine holding. Demand for the gems in Dorana was not likely to fade, at least not in the next several years. And this year’s icewine vintage promised to be exceptional, as did their Brantish oldberry harvest. They could look forward to much success in both cases. The furs they procured in Iringa were also turning a tidy profit, though they should be warned there was a looming danger of the rare Iringan snowcat being hunted to extinction.
“If they could be bred in captivity I’d suggest it,” Nydd sighed. “But they can’t. And since restraint by other hunters is unlikely, my advice is to make a push to take as many of what’s left of the beast as we can, hoard the pelts until they’re all gone, and watch the prices shoot skyward.”
“And sound advice it is,” said Morgan. “See to it, Nydd.” He turned. “Unless you have any objection, my lord?”
His father waved a hand. “None.”
Nydd made a note. “Very good, my lord. And that just leaves the Second district horse farms…”
The discussion of which didn’t take long. The meeting concluded, Morgan left his father to gossip with Nydd and withdrew from the library to find Rumm.
“Sir?” said the master servant, looking up from a saucepan. He was in the kitchen, tasting a sauce. The cook looked nervous, awaiting his verdict. “Is there a problem?”
His polite way of asking Is His Lordship in distress? Rumm was nothing if not a monument to tact.
“A word, Rumm,” he said, with a jerk of his head.
Rumm put down the spoon. “Sir.”
Discreetly distant from the cook, whose back was now turned as he prudently sharpened a carving knife, Morgan folded his arms. “You discussed me with Lord Danfey.”
“Yes.” Rumm blinked. “In the course of my duties I do sometimes make reference to you, sir. Was there something in particular that—”
“In particular,” he said, in no mood for arch games, “you discussed me and my—” Stud duty negotiations. “—relationship with Maris Garrick.”
This time Rumm moistened his lips. “Ah.”
“Yes, Rumm. Ah.”
“Sir—” Sighing, Rumm dropped his gaze to the kitchen’s beautifully scrubbed flagstones. “I apologise.”
“That’s a start, certainly. And now you can explain why I shouldn’t show you the door.”
Rumm’s gaze jerked up. “If I’m to be shown the door, sir, better it be for obeying his lordship than for openly defying him.”
That gave him pause. “You’re saying Lord Danfey ordered you to discuss my privy business with him? It wasn’t a case of him dropping a hint and you picking it up?”
Another sigh. “No, sir. The afternoon you and Mage Garrick went riding, his lordship woke from his restitutional and wanted to know where you were. I did try to be vague, sir, as you requested. Unfortunately I was not vague enough, and so was forced to reveal more than either of us would wish.”
Clasping his hands behind his back, not wanting Rumm to see his white-knuckled anger, Morgan nodded. “I see.”
“Sir, I would have told you—warned you—” Rumm said, his expression earnest. “But his lordship bade me hold my tongue on pain of dismissal.”
So he could sit back and brood and fester on the impertinence of a grown son keeping his personal business to himself.
Greve Danfey, sometimes you are a most unreasonable man.
“Sir…” Rumm’s voice was lowered. “If I might speak my mind freely?”
He snorted. “As far as I can tell, you always do.”
The master servant flicked a glance at the cook, still industriously knife-sharpening, and took a small step closer. “I understand your feelings in this, sir. Marriage is a delicate business, especially where a prominent family is concerned. And when a man has had his heart broken once already…”
Morgan stepped back. “That’s enough.”
“His lordship crowds you out of fear, sir,” said Rumm, heedless of his danger. “I know it seems he has no care for your sensibilities, but the truth is he cares so much it chokes him to a standstill. Don’t fault him for that, sir, don’t—”
“I said that’s enough!”
A gasp and a clatter, as the cook dropped his sharpened knife.
“Sir,” said Rumm, and stood there, a stubborn pride in him that did not belong in a servant, be he a master of the breed or no.
Waiting till he could trust himself, Morgan st
ared at the man. What age was Rumm? He didn’t know. He’d never asked. Perhaps some ten years older than himself? He wasn’t married. Never had been. And thanks to the Council’s recent ruling never would be, now. But had he loved? Had he lived through a heartbreak? Had his arms held the woman he adored as she lay dying in slow agony? Had he breathed in her final, shuddering sigh?
It doesn’t matter if he has. That still wouldn’t give him the right to—
“You’re angry,” Rumm said, stating the obvious with such aplomb it was almost amusing. “I’m sorry. But sir, you have to know it’s not easy walking the line between yourself and your father.”
You’re not paid for easy, Rumm. You’re paid to do as you’re told.
And wasn’t that the problem? Rumm had done precisely as he was told. Indeed, if he’d not answered Lord Danfey honestly he’d be held gravely at fault.
Muscle by taut muscle, Morgan made himself relax. “Very well, Rumm. I’ll overlook it, this once. But don’t think I’ll be so forgiving again. Now you can take sherry to the library. But his lordship is not to have more than one glass. In fact, don’t take a bottle. Take two glasses on a tray, in which case give Nydd the Ospia. That’s good enough for him. His lordship will of course imbibe only the dry Tartaffe.”
Rumm nodded. His face was sober but his eyes were relieved. “Of course, sir.”
“And you can tell his lordship I’ve gone into Elvado,” he added. “I’ve Council business at the College and then I’m staying in town to dine. You can reach me at The Opal, should anything—should I be required. Reassure Lord Danfey that I’ll not be home late.”
“Very good, sir,” Rumm murmured, bowing, once more the perfect, self-contained servant.
Leaving the kitchen, Morgan heard him say to the cook, in a tone he reserved for his own servant underlings, “Mosson, this sauce is rubbish. Did you trip and drop the salt cellar into the pot, you ramshackle spoon bender? Throw it out and do it over. And you can be sure the cost will come out of your too-generous wages.”
Morgan grinned, his good temper abruptly restored. Dismiss Rumm? No. He couldn’t do that, no matter how provoking his behaviour.