'Yes.' Miel grinned. Too late now to worry about being popular. 'Not the three cartloads you asked for, I'm afraid, because there wasn't that much to be had, but there ought to be enough to be going on with.'
'You asked him to get us sulfur?' Framain said.
'I didn't think he'd actually…'
Just a slight adjustment of his shoulders, but Framain conveyed with exquisite precision the information that as far as he was concerned, his daughter no longer existed. 'That was very kind of you,' he said, his eyes fixed, as far as Miel could gather, on his throat. 'But really, you shouldn't have gone to so much trouble,' he went on, in a voice that made Miel want to get out of there as quickly as possible. 'My daughter is inclined to prattle away when we have visitors, says the first thing that comes into her head. People who know us have learned to ignore her. I suppose I should have warned you, but I was hoping you wouldn't run into her.'
Miel had to remind himself that in his time he'd faced down charging boar and Mezentine heavy cavalry. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I didn't mean to intrude. But I was sure you'd be glad of the sulfur. I assume you need it for making the glaze.'
There was a knife on the bench, about eight inches from Framain's hand. It was short, with a blade hooked like an eagle's beak and a plain bone handle. Miel watched Framain look down at it and think for a moment.
'What are you talking about?' he said.
'The glaze,' Miel repeated, his eyes fixed on the knife. 'I know what it is you're doing here. She didn't tell me,' he added quickly, 'I figured it out for myself. You're trying to work out the formula for the glaze the Mezentines use on their translucent white pottery, the stuff that sells for twice its weight in silver.' As well as the knife, he could see Framain's hand on the bench. It was perfectly still. 'I'm guessing that you discovered a deposit of the right kind of china clay somewhere on the lower slopes of Sharra. That's why you stayed here, even when the war came and anybody with any sense cleared out. Nobody anywhere in the world can make that stuff except the Mezentines, because they control the only source of the clay. If you've found another deposit, or something that'll do instead, I can well understand why you wouldn't leave here, no matter what the risk. But of course it's no good being able to make the pottery if you can't glaze it, and that's what you haven't quite figured out yet; which is why you're still tinkering with ingredients rather than churning the stuff out by the cartload from that huge, expensive kiln you had built out the back there.'
'Actually, I built it myself.' Framain had a crooked smile on his face. 'Just me and my son, who's dead now, and the man who used to be my business partner. It took us five years. I don't think there's a better one anywhere, not even in the Republic.'
Miel nodded toward the knife. 'Are you going to kill me or not?' he asked.
Framain slumped a little against the bench, and sighed. 'It crossed my mind,' he said. 'Actually, it was quite close for a moment. If the knife had been longer or a bit closer to hand, I'd definitely have been tempted. But I weighed up the relevant factors. You're younger than I am, probably quicker and better at fighting; and by then, I realized killing you would undoubtedly cause more problems than it'd solve, because if you managed to get sulfur you must have friends, probably among the Vadani, and…' He shrugged. 'I contemplate a lot of things I never actually do,' he said. 'I'm not sure whether it's a strength or a weakness.'
Miel could feel the moment draining away, and allowed himself to relax a little. 'So I was right, then,' he said. 'Good. I'd have felt rather stupid if I'd made that speech and it turned out I'd jumped to entirely the wrong conclusion.'
The girl took a step forward, but Framain shifted just a little and she stopped, as if the line of his shoulder was a barrier she knew she wasn't allowed to cross. She stepped back, and her father's shadow obscured her face. 'Quite right,' Framain said. 'And you're right about the other thing, too. It's an obsession with me, I admit it. Actually, I'm surprised you didn't recognize my name; I'd have thought the Ducas would know such things.'
'Sorry,' Miel said.
Framain smiled. 'That puts me in my place. We were never nobility, you understand. My father was really just a farmer, though he'd have hated to admit it.' He leaned forward until his elbows were resting on the bench, his head hanging down as if in shame. 'When he died we lost the farm as well; there was some money left, enough for a reasonable man, but not for me. My father had a Mezentine dinner service; it was about the only decent thing he had left, at the end. When I sold it, I was amazed at how much it was worth; I found out how valuable the stuff was, and I thought, if only I could discover how it was made, I could get some money and buy back our inheritance. Typical muddle-headed thinking, just what you'd expect from a spoiled middle-aged man suddenly taken poor; nothing would've come of it, except that I met a man who told me he'd worked out the formula and found a deposit of the clay.' Framain scowled, and waited for a moment, as though he had heartburn. 'When he was able to prove he was telling the truth, we became partners; we came here, built this place, everything was going beautifully well. Within a few months we'd fired our first batch. It came out perfect; all we needed was the glaze, and we'd be in business. But…' He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. 'We gave up trying to find the glaze formula and built the kiln; we were still experimenting, of course, but failure was so frustrating that we felt the need to accomplish something tangible, and building a kiln was hard work but at least we could do it. And then…' He stopped. The girl turned away. 'My partner and my son quarreled about something; it was trivial, a technical matter to do with our experiments. I'd always known my partner was a vicious man with a murderous temper, but I was sure he'd learned to control it. Apparently not. He killed my son and nearly killed me, and then he went away. Unfortunately…' Framain smiled. 'Unfortunately, he was the clever one, the scientist. He taught me a great deal, a very great deal, but probably not enough; either that or I simply don't have the spark of genius that he had, and all the hard work in the world won't make up the deficiency. My daughter, however, shows promise, even if she hasn't learned discretion-for which, of course, I have only myself to blame.' Framain yawned, and Miel got the impression that it had been a long time since he'd talked so much; he seemed tired, the sort of fatigue that comes from unaccustomed exertion. 'And there you have it,' he said. 'You can understand why it'd be plain foolishness to kill you, just to preserve a secret that isn't really worth anything.'
'And the sulfur,' Miel said quietly. 'It's one of the ingredients for the glaze.'
'Not even that.' Framain grinned sourly. 'We've been using it as a kind of flux, to draw impurities out of the compound. I found a deposit of the stuff not far away, many years ago, but it's all used up now. I told my daughter; apparently she got the idea that without it we couldn't continue our work, but that's not really true. There are better fluxes. It's quite possible that using sulfur's been holding us back, even.' He lifted his head. 'But I'm sure you aren't interested in technical details. I have an idea you'd already worked out our secret before you came here. What are you going to do?'
Miel looked at him. 'I don't know,' he said.
Framain shook his head. 'It could well be that the Mezentines would give you safe conduct in return for it,' he said. 'I confess, I've assumed so, ever since the start of this ridiculous war. I told myself that if the worst came to the worst and they happened to find us, or if we were betrayed, I could save myself and my daughter. To be honest, I'm not so sure. The clay makes good fabric, you need to know what you're looking for in order to tell it apart from the real thing; but I'm sure you know how fussy they are about their precious specifications. It could be that using a different clay would count as a mortal sin, and they'd never countenance it. Or else it'd cost too much to mine it and cart it to make it worth their while; I really don't know.'
'I could stay here,' Miel said, 'and join you.'
There was a long silence. Eventually the girl said, 'Doing what?'
Framain turned his head and said, 'Be quiet.'
'But Father,' she said, 'he'd be no use, he doesn't know anything about it, and we can't spare the time to teach him, he's useless. He'd just get under our feet.'
Framain looked Miel in the eye and grinned a rather sardonic apology. 'My fault,' he said. 'I taught her metallurgy when I should have been teaching her manners.'
'She's right,' Miel said. 'I don't know the first thing about making glazes. I don't really know much about anything, apart from how to fight wars and manage an estate. But…' He pulled a sad, ridiculous face. 'There must be something I can do to help, digging peat or shoveling clay or sweeping the floors. I probably wouldn't do it very well, because I haven't had much experience, but I could try. I'm no use to anybody else, myself included.'
'That still doesn't explain-' the girl started to say, but Framain shut her up with a gesture.
'It's entirely up to you,' he said. 'Stay here, if you want to. There's usually plenty of food, and no doubt you can find somewhere to sleep in the house. In fact, you can have it; we don't use it very much, as you've probably gathered for yourself. And if you really feel that fetching and carrying and cleaning for us is what you want to do,
