“The same fashion as here. Chaffetz was not satisfied with profits with which he would have been more than pleased a year ago, even three months ago. I suspect some of the others will not be, either. They wish even greater profits. Were they granted such, that would mean fewer golds will be available to your brother at a time when Rex Kharst is threatening. Yet if he or I force them to sell for less or commandeer their crops, then they become even more of a problem. Their desire to enhance themselves regardless of the consequences increases the threat to all Telaryn … and if that greed weakens the land to the point where Kharst defeats your brother, then they also will suffer.”
“Do you think that likely?”
“No. But it is possible, and they know it is possible-or they should-but each thinks only of himself, and feels that the other High Holders should be the ones to be reasonable.” He took another deep breath. “Tomorrow, when we visit Wystgahl, matters will be no different, and that saddens me.”
“It’s too bad that you have to deal with them all at once.”
“I have little choice. Dealing with them in a way that will not offend most of them would take weeks, if not months … and time is what we have little of. Even if I spent that time, some would still refuse to offer fair terms for supplies … unless threatened. That is the way it was in Tilbor, and I doubt it will be different here-except there the threats could be so much more indirect and there was time for them to be considered. Here … I fear that most of those High Holders I visit here will complain that I’ve not been fair … or suggest even worse.”
“I know. Why do you think I suggested you post that squad as a patrol?”
“I had that feeling.”
Vaelora turned to face him directly. “You need some rest.”
“Rest?”
Even in the dim light, he could see her blush, but she did reach out and take his hand as they moved toward the door of their quarters.
25
While both Chaffetz and Aramyn had agreed that they would begin to send barrels of flour on Vendrei, nothing had arrived when Quaeryt and Vaelora departed the post at just before eighth glass to pay a call on High Holder Wystgahl. Quaeryt hadn’t expected that the provisions would arrive that soon, but he had informed both Zhrensyl and Heireg to expect them, and made sure that both Jhalyt and Heireg would be present to remove any golds from the strong room to make payment.
Because Meinyt had suggested rotating companies, third company under Captain Taenyd escorted Quaeryt and Vaelora for the twelve-mille ride south.
The entire front of Wystgahl’s hold appeared to have been recently rebuilt with a portico supported by white marble columns above polished black stone steps up from a marble paved area under the roofed portico for coaches and riders. The tall thin man who stood waiting on the black stone step just below the marble columns had wavy red hair with a few white streaks.
His slightly nasal voice carried easily to the riders as he said, “You must be the new governor. I’m Gahlen, High Holder Wystgahl’s son.”
“Quaeryt, and this is my wife Vaelora.”
“Do come in. Father would like to meet you both.” Gahlen’s voice was pleasantly cool. “Captain, if you’d care to ride to the courtyard, there is water for you and your men there … and for your mounts.”
Taenyd inclined his head politely. “Thank you.”
Quaeryt dismounted, handed the reins to a ranker, then offered a hand to Vaelora, who left the saddle so lightly and gracefully that her boots barely touched the mounting block before she and Quaeryt walked up the black steps toward Gahlen, who led them through shimmering bronze double doors into a circular entry hall some fifteen yards across.
“This is new, is it not?” asked Vaelora.
“It was finished last year,” replied Gahlen. “This way, if you will.” He walked directly back from the entry, through another high-ceilinged chamber graced by a double staircase, and then down a wide hallway past several closed doors to the last doorway on the right, gesturing for them to enter the chamber, a salon with wide windows overlooking a walled garden.
High Holder Wystgahl rose from an armchair, placed so that all the other chairs and the pair of settees faced to where he had been seated. He was even thinner than his son, with sparse white hair above a wrinkled and ruddy, but unbearded face. His watery green eyes were bloodshot. “So … you are here to insist I sell you flour. Is that it? Even accompanied by your beautiful wife.”
“Should I be evasive and diplomatic?” replied Quaeryt.
“You don’t look the type. Besides, you won’t last long enough to be diplomatic.”
“Then I’ll be as polite as I can. How did you find out I was looking for flour? Your holding is not that close to any others.”
“I have heard of your visit to Chaffetz. Gahlen had taken a mare there early yesterday afternoon to be bred to one of his stallions. He passed your patrol as well.”
That might have explained why Chaffetz hadn’t dispatched a messenger, reflected Quaeryt. Then too, Chaffetz just might have thought the better of it.
“Chaffetz was less than pleased. Then, he seldom is. He was less displeased when he discovered you were clearly on your way to visit Aramyn. He took great pleasure in telling Gahlen that you would soon be visiting me. He’s like that.” Wystgahl offered a hoarse chuckle. “Aren’t we all?” He turned his eyes on Vaelora. “You’re much more beautiful than your mother or your sisters. Did you know that?”
“That may be now,” replied Vaelora, “but I’m certain they were more beautiful when they were my age.”
“That may be. That may be.” Wystgahl turned to Quaeryt. “So you were princeps in Tilbor. You look young for that position, Governor.”
Quaeryt smiled politely, and image-projected assurance. “That was Lord Bhayar’s decision, based on what I accomplished.”
“You fight in those battles?”
“Yes.”
“How many men did you kill?”
“I lost count after the first few skirmishes.”
“You’re a scholar, and you fought? I find…” Wystgahl broke off his words. “Well … whatever is … is. It won’t change anything. I’ll sell at my price or not at all.” He snorted. “Governors come and go. Sooner if they cross High Holders.”
Quaeryt could sense that Wystgahl wasn’t about to respect a man he felt was younger and inexperienced. This time he image-projected death … the way he’d seen and sensed it.
Gahlen stepped back … and Wystgahl, who had started to open his mouth, closed it.
After a moment Wystgahl nodded. “You studied with the scholars. They even pronounced you one. You’re not. You’re one of those southern sons who knows power and death. The less I see of you, Governor, the better. What do you want?”
“Three hundred barrels of flour at nine silvers a barrel, and four hundred bushels of potatoes at five coppers for every two bushels.”
“You’ll get what you asked for, Governor. I expect my man to be paid on each delivery. In coin.”
Quaeryt sensed a sliminess behind the words, but that certainly wasn’t anything he could address. “He will be.”
“The first barrels will arrive at the post on Lundi. If there’s nothing else … I wish you well on your ride back to Extela … or what’s left of it.”
“I appreciate your understanding of the situation, High Holder,” replied Quaeryt politely. “We look forward to receipt of the flour and potatoes in good condition.”
Wystgahl barely nodded, then turned to face the windows.
