The Swordsman's Oath (Einarinn 2) (39 page)

“You see, Master Suttler, we’ll have new boats busy along the coasts and up the rivers long before the present fleet are spent.” Den Rannion nodded his discreet approval to Temar. “The larger ships are still in good repair, in any case.”

“We’ll only need ocean ships if we have something worthwhile to send them home with.” A ruddy-faced individual had been following the exchange with an impatient expression. “So, Esquire, what are these mines like? If we’re to get anymore interest in this venture, it’s vital that we prove it’s not simply a singularly ill-timed drain on the Empire’s resources.”

“We have found significant outcroppings of copper in the tributary valleys leading down to the main river, Master Daryn,” stated Temar confidently. “Some of the men with Gidestan experience made a short trip into the plateau and think there is an excellent chance of tin as well.”

“Useful but not exactly news to set all Toremal talking.” The man frowned a little and looked thoughtfully into his wine cup.

“Come on, Sawney, it’s early days yet,” Messire Den Rannion encouraged Master Daryn with a familiar slap on the shoulder. “Who knows what Temar and his men will find over the next hill come the spring.”

“How soon will we know the quality of this ore?” asked Master Daryn.

“The initial assays were promising.” Temar hesitated a little. “I’m afraid it’s not a craft I know much about, but the miners were looking very pleased.” He wondered if he should show these men what he had secure in his shirt pocket but decided against it; Guinalle should see it first.

“So we’ll be able to send ingots home in the spring?” demanded Daryn. “Something to encourage a second fleet, more settlers?”

“I’m sure of it,” Temar stated confidently. “You’ll have excellent news to convey.”

“You wait and see.” Messire Den Rannion smiled broadly. “It’s just as we told you; we will supply the craftsmen at home with all the materials they can desire while as our settlements here spread. Those same goods will find an eager market among our people. Our fellows at home will soon need spend no more effort struggling to sell to rebellious Caladhrians and the like.”

“It might not be gold and silver but the Empire could be grateful soon enough for copper and tin,” Master Suttler observed dourly. “Things were going from bad to worse in Gidesta before we left, weren’t they? His Imperial Uselessness could have been driven back clear over the Dalas by now.”

“Has that lass of Den Fellaemion’s had any information for you recently?” Sawney Daryn turned to Den Rannion. “It’s all very well having Artificers along but I can’t say I’ve noticed her putting herself about much.”

“Demoiselle For Priminale has been busy looking for plants and herbs to replenish the stores and find alternatives for medicaments.” Temar realized he had spoken a little too quickly and certainly too forcefully.

Messire Den Rannion moved smoothly to gloss over the awkward moment. “You know my wife’s sister, Avila? She brought their grandmother’s old still room manuals with her and the women have been trying to remedy their new situation on the far side of the ocean from their favorite apothecary!”

“Trust the ladies to see to their own comforts first!” Master Suttler lifted his beak of a nose above a mocking smile.

Temar laughed with the rest but remembered what Guinalle had told him. He wondered what these men would think if they found themselves lacking soaps for their linen, out of mugwort to dissuade the lice and moth from their gowns, with no bay leaves to keep the weevils out of the flour. He caught Messire Den Rannion’s elbow as Master Dessmar began interrogating Grethist about the precise nature of sailing conditions up river.

“Is Guinalle here?” he asked, hoping he didn’t look too eager.

“I believe so.” Den Rannion looked speculatively at Temar. “Avila told me your expedition met up with one of their foraging trips in Aft-Summer. She was concerned that they had delayed you unnecessarily when you escorted them back to their vessels.”

Temar turned his head to look around the throng, hoping no blush would betray him. “I was not going to risk having to answer to Den Fellaemion for the loss of his favorite niece.”

“Quite so.” Messire Den Rannion inclined his head. “I believe she was with my wife when I last saw her.”

“I’ll go and pay my respects then.” Temar was surprised to see a grin on Messire Den Rannion’s face. “Go on, my boy. Oh, and tell my wife I think it might be a good idea for her to spend some time with Mistress Daryn, would you?”

Temar nodded and walked quickly across the garden toward the new stone hall that was rising from a framework of scaffolding poles.

“Esquire D’Alsennin, isn’t it? Fair festival to you!” A delicate hand on his arm forced Temar to halt and he turned to find a vaguely familiar and undeniably pretty face smiling at him. Golden hair was coiled high above old jewelry decorating rather more shoulder and bosom than he was used to seeing a Tormalin lady display.

“Drianon’s blessings.” Temar bowed low, desperately trying to remember the woman’s name. He rose with a relieved smile. “Mairenne, isn’t it?”

“That’s right, and I shall call you Temar, shall I?” Unmistakable flirtation lit periwinkle eyes set above a pert nose and full, reddened lips. This was one lady who was not running short of cosmetics, Temar noted.

“Temar, there you are.” Vahil appeared at his shoulder. “My mother wishes to speak to you. Excuse us, Mistress Suttler.” He caught Temar’s elbow and wheeled him around with a perfunctory bow of farewell.

Temar shook Vahil’s arm off, more amused than irritated. “How does old Suttler get to put his knife away in a casket like that?”

“Mairenne gave him the key in return for several steps up the ladder.” Vahil strode purposefully in the direction of the hall. “She was on the
Reedsong
, the two-master that wrecked on the sandbars, and her husband was drowned. He was a tanner, from D’Istrac lands, I believe, but Mairenne keeps very quiet about her origins now she’s a merchant’s wife. Stay away from her, Temar, she’s on the look-out for a gently born prospect in case something carries off old Suttler over the winter.”

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t take her if I found her naked in my bed,” laughed Temar. “I know trouble when I see it. Anyway, you’re not the only one who’s a reformed character.”

“Glad to hear it.” A smile softened Vahil’s words. “Things are rather different from home, with everyone living in each other’s pockets like this.”

They reached the steps of the hall and went in, Temar blinking a little as smoke in the air made his eyes smart.

“Obviously this central hearth is only temporary, the chimneys will be built next.” Maitresse Den Rannion was showing a gaggle of avid visitors around the skeleton of her new domain. “The mason is confident they can continue working well into Aft-Autumn; the climate here is so clement, compared to home.”

“Drianon’s blessings on you.” Temar started to bow as the Maitresse turned to him but she stepped forward to catch him by the shoulders and kiss him warmly, rather to his confusion. “Temar, my dear, how delightful to see you. When did you arrive?”

“This afternoon. We had to wait for the ebb tide to bring us down river,” Temar explained. He took a pace backward and looked the ladies up and down, hands spread in a gesture of admiration. “I feel I should apologize for my appearance, seeing you all so elegant in your new style.”

Several of the women blushed and giggled. Maitresse Den Rannion smoothed the close-cut bodice of her narrow-skirted gray gown, its neckline more decorous than Mairenne’s but still considerably lower than Toremal fashions had been dictating when the fleet sailed.

“Elsire is proving to have quite a talent for dressmaking and design,” she explained with a suggestion of a smile dimpling one cheek, “since she realized that she would have to get two gowns out of every dress-length if she was to maintain her customary variety in her wardrobe.”

“You won’t catch my sister in the same gown twice at a festival,” interrupted Vahil, a broad grin on his face. “What’s this I hear about her bargaining for furs?”

“She intends to make herself a fortune by first tantalizing the ladies of Toremal with the exotic pelts the trappers have been bringing in and then by making sure they stay very exclusive.” Temar wondered if he was imagining the hint of tension in the Maitresse’s voice.

“You’re allowing her to go into trade?” One of the ladies with a figure most unflattered by the new style hovered between astonishment and envy.

“It’s a different life on this side if the ocean, isn’t it? So much has changed, why not this?” Maitresse Den Rannion shrugged airily. “Now then, come and see where we’ve marked out the east wing. It’s only pegs and line at the moment, but you’ll be able to get the idea. I’ll see you later, Temar.”

“I’d like to see Elsire in a dress like that,” Temar remarked to Vahil as the women departed, neat ankles glimpsed through hems short enough to keep clear of the dirt floors.

“There you are,” Vahil gestured with his glass. Temar saw Elsire standing beside a scaffold supporting an open doorway decorated with festival garlands of unfamiliar flowers. He caught his breath as his heart seemed to skip a beat and then start racing like a spurred horse. Elsire was talking to Guinalle.

Elsire’s dress was a vibrant green, the silk shot through with a russet weave that echoed the glossy auburn of her hair. The close tailoring showed off her narrow waist and full bosom to superb advantage, an heirloom necklace of gold and amber bright against the pale skin of her neck. Temar nodded his approval to Vahil and then grinned wickedly. “She’s still got those freckles, though, hasn’t she?”

“A price we colonists have to pay for our labors in the heat of the day,” Vahil mimicked his sister, not unkindly, and Temar laughed.

“Guinalle’s looking well,” observed Vahil with a sideways glance at Temar. “We’ve been seeing quite a lot of her, since she’s been working with Aunt Avila on those old concoctions of Great-Grandmama’s.”

Temar nodded, not trusting himself to speak, gazing at Guinalle as he approached her. She had added her own touch to the new style of gown, deep pleats faced with a darker blue than the rest of the skirt, a color echoed in the trim of the bodice. She wore a modest tippet of lace around her shoulders, pinned across her bosom with a sapphire brooch. Temar shivered involuntarily at a sudden memory of those soft and milk-white breasts naked under a tracery of leaves through summer sunlight.

“I said, Guinalle told us you were interested in continuing your studies of Artifice with her over the winter,” Vahil repeated himself with some amusement.

“What?” Temar hastily reined in his wits. “Yes, that’s right. I think it could be useful, especially when we are planning next season’s explorations.”

“Temar!” Elsire greeted him with a shriek of delight that silenced people in all directions. “How lovely to see you!” She embraced him, delicately scented and warm beneath his hands. “When did you get back? I want to hear all about it, everything, all the details. You’ll be staying with us, won’t you? Have you spoken to Mother?”

“Hello, Guinalle.” Temar looked over Elsire’s shoulder at her, hoping his eyes were speaking the words he could not.

“Fair festival to you, Temar.” Guinalle’s self-possession was secure as always, but Temar was pleased to see a faint blush highlighting her cheekbones.

“I need another drink,” began Vahil, “how about you ladies—”

“I was simply saying that this colony is not turning the profit I was led to expect.” A harsh voice rang through a lull in the general buzz of conversation and heads turned to see Messire Den Rannion standing squarely opposed to a thickset man in an ostentatious gown of purple velvet.

“It was made clear from the outset that the rewards of this venture would depend on hard work.” Den Rannion’s tone was icily polite. “The hard work of each individual, that is.”

“I served my apprenticeship too long ago to take up my tools again.” The sturdy man planted his hands either side of an ample waist. “I am entitled to take a commission from my artisans when I am the one advancing them materials, buying in their goods, arranging carriage for their wares back to Zyoutessela. It’s only right!”

“No one is going to give you license to sit idly by and simply levy a percentage to make yourself rich, Master Swire.”

“Father, let’s just enjoy the evening. Don’t talk business at festival time.” A plain-faced girl tugged ineffectually at his elbow, her long blond hair unflatteringly dressed in coiled braids that only served to emphasize the length of her neck and nose. “Everyone’s staring!”

“I’ll have this out at Council.” The man ignored his daughter, leaning forward to raise a hectoring finger to Messire Den Rannion.

“Council has already established that every artisan is free to deal directly with whomsoever he pleases, whatever his previous status as tenant or journeyman may have been.” Messire Den Rannion’s tone remained courteous, but his face was starting to betray his contempt. “Tell me, Master Swire, you were obligated to Den Muret, were you not, before your Sieur granted you permission to join this venture? Will you be sending a due tithe to that House on the spring sailing?”

“Elsire, can you get Kindra out of there?” Temar was startled by the desperation in Vahil’s voice and looked again at the girl. She was a gawky piece in her lavender gown, thin-hipped and bony, no more bosom than a lampstand.

“Of course.” A combative light glinted in Elsire’s green eyes. “She shouldn’t have to suffer for her father again.”

“I’ll come with you.” Guinalle took a pace forward, to Temar’s consternation but Elsire raised a hand to stop her. “No, you know how nervous you make her.”

Temar watched Vahil wringing his hands as the argument became further bogged down into what seemed to be a familiar rut, astonished at his friend’s agitation.

“I think you should be preparing to defend your own position before Council rather than making complaint against me,” Messire Den Rannion was saying, lips thin with growing anger. “You might care to explain why you have been trying to buy food and fodder far in excess of your household’s needs for the winter. I will be interested to hear how that sits with the testimony of some of those artisans formerly obligated to you, who have been finding surprising conditions attached to your so-called gifts.”