Ari Marmell - The Warlord_s legacy

"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. HE'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.