Altyrn smiles, then says to his wife, “Lord Kiedron will be returning for dinner in little more than a glass.”
“We will be ready.” Maeroja turns her eyes on Lerial. “I thought the girls could show you to your chamber, and you might wish to wash up before rejoining us for something cool to drink before dinner.”
“I would appreciate that very much.”
“Rojana … if you would show Lerial?”
The tallest girl, who has her mother’s complexion and hair, but her father’s gray eyes, smiles. “Lord Lerial…”
“Lerial … please. I’m just a younger son.”
“This way…” Rojana turns and walks south to the corridor in the middle of the east side of the villa, then steps inside.
Lerial can see that the corridor continues to the main entrance and a circular entry hall, although the light is dim, yet Rojana does not continue toward the hall, but heads up the narrow steps, open on one side except for a railing. Lerial picks up his bag and follows her. The two other girls trail him.
At the top of the steps Rojana pauses, then walks back toward the courtyard along a hallway directly above the one below. “Everyone’s chambers overlook the courtyard. The upper balcony goes all the way around it.” She turns right at the balcony and follows it around until she stops at a door just past midway along the north side of the villa’s upper level.
“This is your chamber. It has a small washroom through the door. There are two buckets to bring up water. You can get cool water from either the outside fountain or the spout beside the fountains in the courtyard. Later we can show you the upper cistern that holds warmer water. It’s on the roof balcony. We did fill the tub and buckets for you this time. There is a drain for the waste water.”
“Where does it go?”
“The pipes take it to the ditch that serves the front meadow.”
Since Rojana does not open the door, Lerial depresses the door handle and pushes the door open. He steps inside, and she follows. Her sisters do not. The chamber is long, some seven yards, he judges, but only four wide. There are three long and narrow windows set in the north wall, about twice as wide as those on the lower level, and one on each side of the door from the balcony. The furnishings are simple and sparse—a single bed, a doorless armoire, a dresser with three drawers, a flat-topped storage chest at the foot of the bed, a narrow bedside table, and a writing table-desk and a chair. There is one wall lamp suspended from a brass arm and a lamp on the table-desk.
“This is very nice,” he says, nodding to Rojana. “Thank you.”
“There’s also a set of work trousers and a work shirt in the armoire. Papa said he hopes they’re close enough to fit you, but he didn’t want you spoiling riding clothes working with him.”
Lerial manages to stifle a rueful smile. The majer has used his daughter to deliver a tactful announcement of what awaits him. “That is thoughtful. I didn’t bring anything like that.”
“Mother thought you wouldn’t.” That comes from the youngest girl, who stands in the doorway, a serious expression on her face.
“Your mother was right,” replies Lerial.
Rojana eases back to the door. “Is there anything else you need?”
“I wouldn’t think so, but I’ll let you know if there is.”
After the three leave, Lerial closes the door, then carries his kit bag to the chest, where he places it and opens it. First, he unpacks and places his garments in either the armoire or the dresser, setting aside a clean set for dinner. Then he disrobes, washes and shaves, although that takes little time, given that his beard is still fine and uneven. Before dressing in his own garments, he does try on the work clothes. They fit, although they are a shade large.
Less than half a glass later, dressed in clean clothes, he leaves his chambers and retraces his steps back down to the courtyard.
As he nears the majer and his family, gathered around a large circular table under the terrace roof, Lerial can’t help but overhear a few words between the girls.
“… said he wouldn’t take long…”
“… because you like him…”
“Ssshh!”
Lerial keeps a straight face as he stops short of the table. “Thank you. The quarters are lovely.” “Lovely” isn’t really the right word, but “more than ample” sounds condescending, and “adequate” would be arrogant. “Perfect” would be an obvious exaggeration.
“We hope so,” replies Maeroja. “Your rooms are the same as those of Rojana, and all the chambers are similar.”
“I do appreciate them.” He turns to the majer. “And the work clothes.”
“Good. Working here can be a dirty business.” Altyrn gestures to the chair to his left, with an empty mug before it. “You can sit down.”
“Would you like lager, ale, or redberry?” asks Maeroja, gesturing to the three large pitchers in the center of the wooden table.
“Lager, please.”
“That’s the pitcher with the gold stripe.”
From that, Lerial understands that he is to pour his own … and he does so.
“How was the ride?” asks Altyrn.
“Long. I’m not used to that much time in the saddle. But it was interesting. I’ve never been this far south.”
“It’s different, and it’s not … just like most places.”
“Dear … don’t be quite so obscure,” suggests Maeroja with a gentle laugh.
“By that,” adds Altyrn, “I meant that people don’t change much in what they feel, but how they express it may be very different. That’s one way of looking at it.”
At that moment, a young man in a tan shirt and shorts emerges from the corridor leading from the main entry door. “Ser … Lord Kiedron is approaching.”
“Thank you, Rhewen.” The majer stands and looks at Maeroja and Lerial. “I’ll greet him myself.”
Since no one else moves as Altyrn leaves, Lerial remains with Maeroja and the girls, although he feels awkward doing so … but the majer’s words had been a command of sorts.
“He does have a way of making his wishes known without stating them,” Maeroja says to Lerial, her tone matter-of-fact.
“I’m gaining that impression, Lady.”
While the majer’s wife does not flush, Lerial can tell that his salutation has embarrassed her, but what else could he call her. Not to address her would be presumptuous, if not rude.
“If you must address me,” she says with a slight twist to her lips, “‘Maeroja’ might be better.”
“I did not wish to presume,” he replies gently.
“That would not be presumptuous.” She smiles softly. “I do appreciate the honor, undeserved as it is.”
After those words, Lerial is the one trying not to blush.
“How old are you?” asks the youngest girl.
“Almost sixteen,” he answers, adding, “Aylana,” as he finally recalls her name.
“You don’t look that old. You’re thin, too.”
“That’s likely one reason why I’m here. My father wants me to learn things from your father.”
“You’ll learn,” says Rojana. “Father will see to that.”
Both her sisters nod.
“Enough, girls.” But there is a trace of an amusement behind Maeroja’s words.
Lerial takes a careful swallow of the lager, darker than he would prefer, and, after swallowing it, he finds it is likely also stronger and a shade more bitter. Still … he would prefer lager to ale … and definitely to redberry. “Do you brew your own lager and ale?”
“We do, but only enough for Kinaar. The barley takes too much space for us to grow more.”
Lerial is pondering that, given that there seems to be plenty of land, when Altyrn and his father step out onto the terrace. As Kiedron approaches the terrace table, Maeroja rises, and so do Lerial and the three girls.
“It’s an honor and a pleasure to see you again, Lord Kiedron,” Maeroja offers.
“It’s my pleasure as w
ell. It’s not often I can dine with just a family, other than my own.”
Lerial can sense the truth of his father’s words, and he cannot help but wonder how much he does not know about what has occurred involving the majer and his wife … and his father.
“It’s still our pleasure,” adds Altyrn. “You have had a long day. Perhaps we should adjourn to the dinner table?”
“That might be for the best. I will need to leave quite early tomorrow.”
The dining chamber is off the terrace, but has three sets of wide sliding doors that are open so that the chamber shares the cool of the courtyard. On colder evenings, Lerial imagines that they are closed. Altyrn seats Kiedron at the head of the table, with Maeroja to his left, then takes the place to the Duke’s right. Lerial is seated beside Maeroja, with Rojana beside her father, and the middle daughter, Tyrna, to Lerial’s right, and Aylana beside Rojana.
Once everyone is seated and a serving maid fills each goblet, Altyrn raises his. “To the Duke, Lord Kiedron, without whom Cigoerne would not be.”
“I’ll only drink to that, if I can reply that I wouldn’t be here without you,” answers Kiedron, lifting his own goblet.
Altyrn does not offer a demurral, Lerial notes, but adds, “To what has come to pass.” He glances across at his wife, who smiles.
Once more Lerial feels that there is much passing by him, but he drinks with the others, and after a moment lifts his goblet of lager. “Might I offer thanks to Majer Altyrn and his lady for their kindness in taking me in to teach me what I must learn?”
“You may indeed,” says Kiedron, his words warm.
After that toast, Maeroja says, “The dinner tonight is simple, but one you have always enjoyed.”
“It wouldn’t be the roasted fowl and mushrooms, with glazed lace potatoes, would it?”
Both Altyrn and Maeroja laugh, if softly.
As the server dishes out the main course to Kiedron—Lerial notes that there is no appetizer or salad—the Duke looks to Rojana. “You’ve grown quite a lot since I was last here, and you take after your mother, not that you wouldn’t look good taking after your father … but I do think that gray hair looks better on him.”
The girls all smile.
He’s never joked that way at table in Cigoerne.
“I would guess that Lerial takes more after your sister, with the red hair,” observes Maeroja.
“He does, in that and other ways. That’s one of the reasons I thought some time with you might do him good.”
“How is she?” asks Altyrn.
“She’s well, and I don’t know what the healers in Cigoerne would do without her…”
For a time, the conversation remains firmly away from personal observations, if ranging from the weather to timbering, the possibility of Meroweyan raiders, and the ambitions of the Duke of Heldya.
Then Kiedron asks, “How is the kiln working these days?”
“There are some who want bricks every year. We fire it up when times are slower in the fields.”
“What about our venture?”
What venture? Lerial is not about to ask, but he listens intently.
“We sold some ten stones worth last year. Half of that went to pay off the ironmages who made the threading machine and … well, and the interest, because we had to borrow from the moneylenders in Swartheld to pay the ironmages, but it can handle ten times that much, and it will be years before we can produce that much. We also needed more kettles.”
“You’re getting … what?”
Altyrn glances to Maeroja.
She nods.
“A hundred a stone.”
A hundred what a stone? Lerial wonders. Coppers, silvers, golds? It must be coppers or silvers. What could possibly cost a hundred golds for a stone’s worth? A half-yearling lamb cost between five coppers and a silver, and a yearling colt between three and five golds. For a hundred golds, his father could almost supply an entire squad of Lancers with mounts and gear … well … not completely, but close.
“You’re going to expand?” asks Kiedron.
“We’re working on it. We’ll need more trees.”
Kiedron nods, but does not ask more, and the conversation reverts to more on the weather and the likelihood of famine in parts of Heldya and Merowey.
Dessert consists of a fried molasses sweetcake, followed by tiny glasses of a sweet white wine. Lerial has to admit that the wine, as dessert, isn’t bad.
Before long he is walking with the majer and his father out to the front entrance of the villa, where two Lancers wait for the Duke.
At the entry, Kiedron turns to his son. “I expect you to obey the majer and learn from the experience, Lerial.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Good.” Kiedron nods, then adds quietly, “Just be careful.” Then he turns abruptly, walks toward his horse, and mounts. In moments, he and the Lancers are largely lost in the dimness of late evening.
Just be careful. The concern in those words confuses Lerial, because he’s seldom heard that from his father. He stands there, watching, until he can make out no sign of the riders. Then he turns.
Altyrn has waited. “He does care, you know? He just feels he can’t show it.”
Then why has he brought me here?
“You’ll understand in time,” adds the majer, almost as if Lerial has spoken. “You probably need a good night’s sleep. Morning comes early. I’d suggest wearing the work clothes and your worst boots.”
“Yes, ser.”
Altyrn closes and bars the main entry door, and the two walk back toward the courtyard terrace.
X
On threeday morning, before sunrise when the sky is as much gray as greenish-blue, there is a rap on his door.
“Time to get up,” calls a girl’s voice.
Lerial struggles out of sleep, then sits up … and finds that every muscle is his body feels stiff and sore. In the dimness, he struggles into the work clothes and boots, washes his face, and finally makes his way downstairs. He is the last one to the breakfast room … where the girls are already eating. All three are dressed in faded brown trousers and long-sleeved shirts.
“A little stiff from all that riding?” asks Altyrn.
“A bit more than a little, ser,” replies Lerial.
“Nothing like a good breakfast and some exercise to take care of that,” says Maeroja. She gestures toward the empty chair at the table. “Are you better with a shovel or a hoe?”
How is he supposed to answer that? He’s never used either. After a moment, he replies, “I suspect I’m equally bad with either.”
“You’ve trained with wands,” says Altyrn. “You’ll be better with a shovel. You and I and Rojana will be working with the crew extending the ditches for the meadow we’ll be switching to growing more mulberries.”
Mulberries? Lerial has heard of mulberries, but never tasted one. “How do they taste?” He slides into the chair beside Rojana.
All the girls smile.
Lerial has the feeling that mulberries are not something that people eat, but, if that’s so, why is Altyrn going to grow more of them?
“They’re not bad in a pie, especially if you thicken the filling and add raisins,” replies Maeroja. “Do you remember shimmercloth?”
“Grandmother had a scarf and a blouse of it.”
“It’s highly prized, but no one in Hamor knows how it was created. We do … or rather my husband does, and it’s taken years to build up enough silk moths, but we can’t raise any more without more fresh leaves to feed the larvae.”
“You’re growing shimmercloth?”
Altyrn shook his head. “It’s not quite the same, but the threads and fabric are much the same. The silk moths are different here, and it took years to get white mulberry seeds from Candar.”
Lerial cannot say that he understands, but he decides against revealing more ignorance immediately. Instead, he looks at the platter and bowl before him. The bowl contains a grayish porridge of sorts that looks to
have raisins mixed into it. On the platter is a piece of browned egg toast, with a slice of hard yellow cheese on the side and a strip of fried meat that might be ham. In his mug is some sort of liquid.
“There’s raisin-berry syrup in the pitcher,” Aylana advises him. “It’s good on the egg toast. Don’t hog it.”
Lerial can’t help but smile slightly at the words of the youngest girl, reminding him slightly of his own sister. “Thank you. I won’t.”
Since everyone else has already started to eat, Lerial does not hesitate … or not much. The porridge is better than it looks, and the combination of egg toast and syrup actually tastes good. The cheese is far stronger than he imagined cheese could be, and he has no idea what the meat might be, except that it is strong … and it’s not mutton, beef, or ham. He decides not to ask. The greenish liquid in his mug turns out to be a type of greenberry juice he’s never tasted, almost too tart for his taste at first, but it does go with the breakfast in a way he cannot explain.
When he finishes his last bite of the porridge, Maeroja hands him a small jar. “Put some on your face and neck, evenly and all over. Otherwise your skin will burn and blister. Especially yours.”
Lerial takes the jar.
After returning to his chamber and slathering his face and neck, Lerial makes his way down to the main level, where Rojana and Altyrn wait for him. He and Rojana walk side by side behind Altyrn, out through the center courtyard and then through the corridor on the west side of the villa out across the paved area toward the outbuildings.
Rojana, who carries an oddly shaped piece of wood, points to the brick shedlike building ahead that appears to have a white awning suspended above the tile roof. “That’s the cocoonery.”
“The what?”
“Where the silkworm eggs hatch. It can’t be too hot or too cool. That’s why they hatch and are fed during the spring and the early summer. Even with the awning it gets too hot after that. Then the cocoons have to be boiled…”
“But who does all this?”
“Tyrna and Aylana are good at teasing out the silk strands, and Father pays some of the local girls to help. We’ll have to get more when we build another cocoonery.”
Cyador’s Heirs Page 9