TORD Dencer.” The young-looking Dumaran officer in red bows to the taller and slightly older man who stands by the ornately carved desk. “Gortin, captain of lancers for Lord Ehara.”
The tall and gangly Dencer nods his head sharply, and a lock of thinning brown hair droops across a too-high forehead, almost screening his left eye. “To what do we owe the courtesy of a visit from a neighbor to the south?” His eyes flicker imperceptibly to the pair of armsmen in tan leathers at the door, and the one who stands by the tall bookcase to his left.
“A sad courtesy, a sad one indeed.” Gortin bows again. “We were led to believe that one traveler by the name of Slevn came from Stromwer. He paid a courtesy visit to Lord Ehara, and we had thought he returned to Stromwer.”
“You had thought this . . . visitor . . . had returned?” Dencer’s eyebrows rise, and he brushes the wayward lock of hair back and across his balding pate.
“Until we discovered he had been beset by bandits. He was traveling alone.” Gortin shrugs. “Even in a land as ordered as Dumar, when one reaches the Sudbergs, there are places for evildoers to hide.” The red-uniformed Dumaran extends a pouch. “We returned his effects to you, as his lord, since we were headed to see you.”
“How convenient,” Dencer responds mildly, taking the large canvas sack and setting it upon the desk without opening it.
“It was the least we could do. We were already riding this way, and it appeared that this fellow had been heading home.” Gortin smiles blandly.
“I am curious. How did you know this . . . person . . . was the one who visited Lord Ehara?”
Gortin bows. “I could not be precisely certain, my lord, but there were certain indications. This Slevn wore a gray cloak and trousers, and so did the unfortunate we found. His purse was gone, but he had tucked a scroll with Lord Ehara’s official seal inside the lining of his cloak, and a shiny fresh-minted gold. Lord Ehara sent the scroll with him. It was still sealed, and we didn’t open it, seeing as it was addressed to you. It be in the pouch.”
“The bandits did not slit or take his cloak?”
“It was covered with blood, Lord Dencer. They were hasty, from the signs.”
“Tell me,” says Dencer, standing erect by the desk, cranelike, but a predatory crane. “Might anyone in Dumar know why this—what did you say his name was?—this fellow went to see Lord Ehara? Was he a trader or some such?”
Gortin shrugs. “None would know but Lord Ehara. Lord Ehara saw him alone. That is why, when we came across his body, I had thought to inform you when we arrived.”
“My thanks for your . . . rectitude, Captain.” Dencer frowns. “Surely, you and your squad did not ride all the way from Dumaria merely to return the effects of an unfortunate traveler.”
“No, ser.” Gortin bows again, and extends a scroll, trimmed in gilt and sealed with both red wax and a scarlet ribbon. “Lord Ehara sent us to offer his friendship. Lord Ehara understands that all must be neighbors and friends in these unsettled times.”
“There is friendship, and there is friendship,” Dencer observes.
Gortin turns and takes a velvet pouch from the lancer who stands behind him, then extends that. “A token of the quality and sincerity of Lord Ehara’s desire to demonstrate his most earnest desire to establish friendship between his lands and yours of Stromwer.”
Dencer lifts the pouch. “He makes a weighty gesture indeed.” The pouch goes beside the first on the desk. “Your lord has a way with gestures.” He smiles, although the hard glitter does not leave his eyes. “After riding so far with such a generous gesture, you must join us for the evening meal. Your lancers will be fed with my armsmen.”
“I would be most pleased. I understand you have a most talented consort.”
“Ah, yes, I do.” Dencer’s smile vanishes, and he looks down at the polished wooden floor. “Alas, she is indisposed, and will not be joining us. At times, I fear for her health. These times have weighed hard upon her. You know that she was held in Falcor, and she has yet to recover from the . . . effects of that . . . stay.”
“Oh . . . I had not heard. I am so sorry . . .” Gortin offers a solicitous smile. “Lord Ehara had said that these times have indeed fallen hard upon some of Defalk.”
“We do what we can, and we can but hope that the surroundings here will ensure her full recovery.”
“With such a burden, Lord Dencer,” says Gortin gravely, “I could not impose upon your hospitality. That would be asking far too much of your charity and goodwill.”
“Nonsense, your presence and news will divert me. Surely, you would not gainsay me that in, as you put it, this time of trouble?” Dencer offers a tentative smile.
“Are you sure of that? We would not add any burden to those you already bear.”
“I would be most pleased to hear of your lord and of how matters fare in Dumar these days. Most pleased.” Dencer nods, and then brushes back his unruly hair.