The Warlord's Legacy (5 page)
Just another example of Cephira’s commitment to “civilized warfare”—a concept that, where Cerris was concerned, had about the same legitimacy as “playful torture” or “adorable pustule.” The commoners might be pressed into service, but the nobility? Their soldiers and much of their staff were stripped from them, and they were confined to house arrest, but otherwise they remained unharmed and largely unmolested. There they would linger, until either their families offered sufficient ransom to buy their release, or until someone in the Cephiran military command decided that they posed a threat or possessed knowledge the invaders needed.
At which point, all bets were off. Civility only goes so far in war, after all.
“Colonel Ilrik requires information from the baroness,” Cerris announced as he advanced up the walk toward one particular estate,
dredging from memory a name overheard during the past weeks. “I’m to question her at once.”
“What questions?” asked the first guard, a young man whose sparse beard did little to hide either his rotted teeth or his smattering of pock-marks. “What could Colonel Ilrik need with …?”
Cerris halted and slowly, deliberately, turned the full weight of his contempt upon the soldier. Eyes that had seen horrors few could imagine bored into the guard’s soul, and the younger man visibly cringed within his armor.
Expression unchanging, Cerris looked the soldier up and down as though examining a rotting, maggot-ridden haunch of beef. “My apologies, Baroness,” he said, his tone frosty as a winter morning. “I didn’t recognize you in that outfit.”
“I … Sir, I just thought …” The guard glanced helplessly at his companion for support, but the other soldier had the good sense to keep his mouth firmly shut.
“You’re still talking,” Cerris informed him. “You really ought to have a physician look into that before it affects your health.”
The pair moved, as one, to open the gate, the younger even tensing his arm in an abortive salute as Cerris marched past. The guards already forgotten—or at least dismissed as unimportant (he’d never
forget
a potential enemy at his back)—Cerris made his way up the familiar pathway. Around a few small fountains of marble and brass, and through gardens of carefully tended flowers, all of which were actually rather understated where the nobility were concerned, he followed until it culminated at the Lady Irrial’s front door …
Cerris paused a moment to scrape the muddy snow from his boots on the stoop, then entered the Lady Irrial’s parlor, all beneath the unyielding and disapproving gaze of a butler who probably only owned that one expression—perhaps borrowing others from his employer when the rare occasion required it.
“And is my lady expecting you?” the manservant demanded in
precisely the same tone he might have used to ask
And is there a reason you have just piddled on a priceless carpet
?
For several moments, Cerris couldn’t be bothered to answer, instead gazing around to take in the abode of one of his new noble “customers.” Where previous houses had practically glowed with polished gold and gleaming silver, brilliantly hued tapestries and gaudy portraits, it appeared that the Baroness Irrial might have more restrained tastes. The chandelier was brass and crystal, but its design was more functional than decorative. A large mirror, framed in brass, stood by the door so that guests might comport themselves for their visit, and a single portrait—the first Duke of Rahariem, grandfather to the current regent and great-uncle to Irrial herself—dominated the far wall above a modest fireplace.
Finally, the butler having stewed long enough that he was probably about ready to be served as an appetizer, Cerris replied, “No, I don’t believe so.”
“I see. And do I recall correctly that you gave your name as ‘Cerris’?”
“I hope you do, since that actually is what I said.”
The butler’s non-expression grew even more
non
. “Have you any idea at all, Master Cerris, how many people show up here on a daily basis, expecting to meet with the baroness without an appointment?”
“No, but I’d lay odds you’re about to tell me.”
“None, Master Cerris. Because
most
folk are polite enough, and have sufficient sense of their place, not to arrive unannounced.” His lips twitched, and Cerris was certain that he’d have been grinning arrogantly if he’d not long since forgotten how.
“Well, I’m terribly sorry to have upset your notion of the rightness of things. Now please tell my lady that Cerris is here to see her regarding the family’s trade arrangements.”
“Now, see here—”
“Go. Tell. Her.”
“I shall have you thrown out at once!”
“You could do that,” Cerris said calmly. “Of course, then you’ll have to explain to Lady Irrial why she’s the only noble in the city who suddenly can’t afford textiles from Mecepheum, or imported fruits, or a thousand other things.”
“I … You …”
“Run along now.” He refrained from reaching out to pat the old man’s cheek—but only just. Cerris was actually rather surprised that the butler didn’t leak a trail of steam from his ears as he turned and stalked, back rigid, up the burgundy-carpeted stairs.
Only a few moments had gone to their graves before footsteps sounded again on those steps, but the descending figure, clad in a luxurious gown of emerald green girdled in gold, was most assuredly
not
the butler. She looked a decade younger than her years, apparently having faced middle age head-on as it drew near, and beaten it into a submissive pulp with a heavy stick. Her auburn hair, though coiled atop her head, was not so tightly wound as the current style, and her face boasted a veritable constellation of freckles. Most aristocrats would assuredly have tried to hide them with sundry creams and powders, but she seemed to wear them almost aggressively, as a badge of pride.
Cerris, who hadn’t really had eyes for a woman since—well, in quite some time—found himself standing just a tad straighter.
“Lady Irrial,” he greeted her, executing a passable bow and brushing his lips across her knuckles.
“Why are you bullying poor Rannert, Master Cerris?” she demanded in a husky voice. Her lips were turned downward, but as he rose, her guest could have sworn he saw a flicker of amusement ripple across those freckles.
“Well, I didn’t think you’d appreciate me actually knocking him out, my lady, and bribing him just seemed so disrespectful.”
Those downturned lips twitched.
“Please be seated, Master Cerris.” She swept toward one of several chairs, gown swirling like a mist around her.
“Oh, just Cerris, please,” he said, sitting opposite her. Then, “I
do
apologize for just dropping by like this, my lady. I simply
thought it best to make sure everyone got to know me, since we’re all going to be working together.”
“Are we indeed? And why is that, ‘just Cerris’?”
“I’m the new owner of Danrien’s mercantile interests.”
Irrial’s jaw went slack. “Danrien sold?
All
of it?”
Cerris nodded.
“I can’t believe it. That old coo—ah, that dear old man,” she corrected, recovering her manners through her shock, “ate, slept, and breathed commerce. I was certain that, come the day he died—Vantares be patient—his successors would have to pry his ledgers from one hand, and his purse from the other.” Her brow furrowed. “To hear Rannert tell it, you’re not exactly the most diplomatic individual. How
did
you convince him to sell?”
“Just worked a bit of my own personal magic, my lady,” Cerris said blandly.
“I see. I do hope that you’re not planning to conduct all your business in the same manner that you dealt with my staff.”
“Not unless I have to.”
A moment of awkward silence. “You realize, Cerris, that my cousin Duke Halmon actually rules here. The rest of us govern while he sits on the regent’s throne in Mecepheum, but we each own only a portion of the city’s lands. I can’t unilaterally make trade arrangements for all of Rahariem.”
“Oh, I understand, my lady. You’re not the only noble on my agenda. I just wanted to get to know
each
of you, and to assure you that I won’t be taking the opportunity of the changeover to raise prices on goods and transport.”
“That’s very kind of you, Cerris. And will you be taking Danrien’s place in the Merchants’ Guild as well?”
“I thought,” he said carefully, “that it would be best to deal with the
real
power in Rahariem first, make certain my foundation was solid with you, before—”
Irrial raised a hand. “You wanted to have the nobles backing you before you approached the Guild, so that they’d let you take over Danrien’s senior office, rather than starting you at the bottom
of the heap as they normally do new members, no matter whose routes they now oversee.”
Cerris felt himself flush lightly. “You’re quite astute, my lady.”
Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Then perhaps we ought to discuss a
lowering
of prices, Cerris. Just to make certain that I feel comfortable backing your claim.”
For a long moment, he could only stare. Then, “I should have bought out Rahariem’s coopers as well. At least that way I could have gotten some work done while you’ve got me over this barrel.”
Irrial laughed—not the genteel titter of an aristocrat, but a full-throated guffaw that would have been at home in any tavern. Cerris couldn’t help but smile along with her as they began their negotiations.
H
E’D VISITED THE ESTATE
often in the intervening years—perhaps, though he’d never have admitted it to himself let alone anyone else, more frequently than business strictly mandated—and he knew the layout well. He knew, too, that while his stolen uniform had been necessary to get him through the gate, and indeed across the property, it would stand out dramatically in certain rooms of the main house.
Slipping through the kitchen entrance, he paused, letting his vision adjust to the faint light. He avoided the servants’ quarters entirely, for they, as with similar halls throughout Rahariem’s estates, were currently serving as billet to a squad of Cephiran troops. The servants who remained, those who hadn’t been pressed into work gangs, would instead be bunked three or four to a chamber in the house’s guest quarters. In silence born partly of skill and partly of magic—the latter to cover incidental sounds, squeaking stairs, and the occasional pop of aging joints—Cerris crept through those rooms now, and recognized one of the men therein. Sprawled across a sofa, snoring as though Kassek War-Bringer and Oldrei Storm Queen were wrestling in his
nostrils, lay the butler Rannert. In all the days since their first meeting, Cerris had never once seen the old man smile, and even in the depths of what must be a worried sleep, his jaw remained fixed in a look of stiff propriety.
The intruder stepped carefully away from the sleeping forms to the wardrobe, slipping on a hanging overcoat he pulled from within and leaving his crimson tabard behind. Back to the kitchen, then, to acquire the necessary props to excuse his presence should anyone awaken and challenge him. Finally, now looking very much the household servant—if, perhaps, a somewhat disheveled one—he trod softly up the stairs and along the hall toward the baroness’s chambers.
