This, Aefric remembered from the trip up. The right-hand house, painted a pale blue, with its mural of flowers surrounding the bottom, was the mayor’s house. And the left-hand building, painted Deepwater gray with navy blue trim, housed the mayor’s office, as well as the city council, the town historian, the tax assessor, and other important governmental functions.

  The mayor, surrounded by servants and aides, stood outside his house, waiting.

  The mayor of Lachedran, one Brangton Couglas, had held his post for more than thirty years. About half his life, to judge by looking at him, but it had been a good life.

  He was a heavy man, dusky-hued, with wavy, gray hair and beard, both neatly trimmed. He wore robes in a checked pattern of soft yellows bordered by dark browns, which called attention to his medal of office, which was bigger than Brangton’s good-sized fist, and hung from a thick, twisted chain of gold.

  “Your grace,” he called out in a strong voice. “I’ve only just heard. What befell you? Is there anything I can do?”

  Aefric felt that Brangton was pushing the definition of “just,” but let that go.

  “Nothing that threatens Lachedran,” Aefric said.

  He’d already discussed the matter with Sers Yrsa and Beornric, and they’d agreed that the best path here was to hold back what they’d learned in the Dragonscar.

  “We fought both smugglers and slavers,” Aefric continued. “But they’ve been dealt with. As for what you can do for me—”

  “Of course, your grace,” Brangton said. “You and your men need food and rest. I’ll see to it at once.”

  He raised his hands, but before he could clap them, Aefric spoke.

  “I appreciate the offer, Mayor Brangton. But what I need from you is to get word to the Calming Influence that I’m here and ready to go. It should still be at harbor here, waiting for me.”

  Brangton frowned, and smoothed the front of his robe. He sounded less pleased when he said, “Forgive me, your grace. I meant only to offer you hospitality. I know you have had a hard march from the Dragonscar, made all the harder for your hurts and losses.”

  Aefric forced himself to draw a deep breath through his nose, without letting show what he was doing. If the mayor saw that sigh, he might take offense.

  And apparently, Aefric had already offended him. A man who’d handled his city for longer than Aefric had been alive.

  Politics. He had to remember to balance speed with politics, in all things.

  “The error is mine, Mayor Brangton,” Aefric said, sliding down from his saddle and stepping up to kiss the man’s hand.

  Brangton made a surprised and pleased sound, which was what Aefric was hoping for. The kissing of hands, that was to be done for lesser nobles. Brangton, for all his authority as mayor, as not a noble. Not even a ler.

  In kissing his hand, Aefric was paying the man a mighty compliment.

  “The road overwhelmed my thoughts,” Aefric said with a smile, “as it no doubt overwhelms my smell. There is nothing I must do at Water’s End that cannot wait until morning. And surely I and mine would benefit from your hospitality not only in body, but in spirit.”

  “Thank you, your grace,” Brangton said, and pressed his forehead to Aefric’s knuckles, as though the man actually were a noble.

  And with that, Aefric suffered another delay in getting back to Water’s End.

  As it turned out, there was a special set of chambers on the third floor of the mayor’s house set aside for the duke or duchess, when they visited.

  The chambers were set at the back of the house, and had a stone terrace overlooking the docks and the lake. Large panes of impressively thin glass, fitted and fixed in place well enough to keep the winds out, when closed.

  Despite the hour, a good many boats and ships were out on the water. Including the Calming Influence. The great, three-masted warship cut an imposing presence, out in the harbor.

  The stone floor of the chambers had clearly just been swept, and the air smelled sweet from the fresh rugs of woven rushes. The rooms were lit by oil lamps, hanging from hooks at intervals on the ceiling.

  The furniture was of birch. In the sitting room, there were padded, comfortable couches arranged around a low coffee table. Seating for six, eight if they got cozy. An armoire contained a selection of cloaks and hoods and boots.

  Aefric was impressed at the masculine cut of the cloaks and design of the boots. He hadn’t stayed here before, which — he’d expected — meant that everything in here was likely as it had been when Arinda Soulfist was duchess.

  And yet, just like at Behal and Water’s End, it seemed as though an advance troop of tailors and cobblers had come through, making sure that Aefric had clothing that fit him well.

  Kainemorton’s work, no doubt. The Mage of Marrisford had likely magically taken his measurements some time ago, and simply passed them along to all interested parties, once it was announced that Aefric would be the new duke of Deepwater.

  Speaking of clothing, in the bedroom proper, Aefric found an armoire with a selection of clothes and underclothes that all looked as though they’d fit him.

  The furniture in here was beech as well, including the large, comfortable looking bed, with its thick bedspread that would no doubt be too hot as the warm night wore on.

  But then, the bedspread was likely there for its look. It was made from soft, padded linens of Deepwater gray, with the Deepwater sigil done large in navy blue.

  The bedframe had posts, and a canopy, with gauzy cream-colored fabrics hanging down. At the base of the bed was a chest, currently empty. It had a lock, and the key was in the lock.

  Convenient. He put his backpack in there and locked it, pocketing the key.

  In one corner of the room was a small altar, with a cabinet underneath that likely held candles, incense, and perhaps a few statues or symbols of the different gods they might expect their duke to revere.

  Beside that was a stand with a copper basin and three ewers of water. But the cleaning Aefric needed went beyond what a basin could provide.

  No. What he needed was that copper tub over by the fireplace, with water heating for his bath.

  Even now a pair of servants — young women, both, wearing simple bodices and skirts in the brown and gold colors of Lachedran — were preparing that bath for him. Aefric smiled as he remembered quipping about his own smell.

  Well, if his joke had ensured he’d get a bath before dinner, he’d choose self-deprecation every time.

  The fire was a bit much, though, so Aefric said to the servants, “I’ll be in the next room. Please call me when the bath is ready.”

  Both women looked to be fighting against excited giggles as they smiled and bowed and said, “Yes, your grace.”

  Aefric shook his head. After spending so much of his life as an adventurer — treated hardly better than a mercenary in most places — the idea that he was a kind of celebrity now still took getting used to.

  He wandered back into his sitting room, to see that Sers Yrsa and Beornric had arrived. And apparently, while Aefric had been looking around, a servant had brought in a selection of sliced cheeses and meats, and set them on the coffee table with a cut crystal jug of wine, and a set of four cut crystal wineglasses.

  “Shall we?” Aefric asked, pointing at the assortment and setting the Brightstaff to stand beside him as he eased down onto a couch with a grateful sigh. His two knight-advisers did the same, on the couch facing him.

  He wasn’t used to hiking that far anymore. Too much time either flying or riding or sailing. His legs were tight and sore along muscles that felt neglected by his new lifestyle.

  After each had partaken of some sliced chicken and a good, sharp cheese, as well as a few sips of crisp, light white wine, Ser Yrsa began the conversation.

  “Your grace,” she said, “I forbade the troops from carousing tonight.”

  “Why?” Aefric asked.

  “They have fought three skirmishes since we last left Lachedran. They’ve seen their fellows get wounded or killed. The first chance they’ll get, they’re likely to overindulge, grateful to be alive and largely intact. I don’t want them doing that here.”

  “Drunk men keep few secrets,” Aefric said with a sigh.

  “None at all, in my experience,” Ser Beornric said. “Which is why I’m very careful when and where I choose to drink more than a touch.”

  Ser Yrsa snorted. “What you consider a ‘touch’ is enough to put most folks under the table.”

  “But I never lose command of my faculties,” Ser Beornric said, smiling, and taking a sip of wine to prove his point.

  “All right,” Aefric said. “There are two servants in the next room, working on my bath. So let there be no spilling of secrets in here either.”

  “I think you made the wise move,” Ser Beornric said. “Staying here tonight. Though you may be paying for that hand-kiss for a while. He’s likely to expect it now.”

  “I did it to prove a point about my apology,” Aefric said, raising an eyebrow. “Not to promote the man. He can hope, but he’s not likely to get it again anytime soon.”

  “For the best,” Ser Yrsa said softly. “It’s no secret that he covets nobility. That gesture may make him an eager servant at a time when we definitely benefit from his good graces.”

  Aefric held up a hand for silence. He cast about with his focus to make sure he sensed no magic he didn’t expect.

  All clear. He nodded, and lowered his hand.

  “You think he might be involved?” Aefric asked softly.

  “Do you want to rule him out?” Ser Beornric asked, and now all three of them were leaning closer and speaking in hushed voices.

  “No. He might be the closest person in a position of power, and thus, a likely suspect. No. Keep your eyes and ears open. See what you can find out. But I still intend to be back in Water’s End before noon tomorrow.”

  “Why the hurry?” Ser Yrsa asked.

  “I need to know how things went in Ajenmoor,” Aefric said. “I want to see to the welfare of those captives. And I want to send a few rika birds, as well as check the most recent news.”

  “Plans?” Ser Yrsa asked.

  “Not sure yet,” Aefric said. “Too many variables. But I need to know who the closest lers in question are, and what their standing is. I need to research … something as well.”

  He mouthed, “North side cave gold.”

  Ser Beornric frowned, nodding agreement. Ser Yrsa, apparently, hadn’t considered the political implications of that particular gold vein. She blinked rapidly, and took a sip of wine as she considered.

  She opened her mouth to say something, but Aefric mouthed, “Not here.”

  She nodded.

  “Your grace?”

  Aefric looked up to see one of the servants who’d been preparing his bath, smiling at him from the doorway. The two of them looked enough alike to be sisters, but this was the one with darker brown hair, while the other had hints of auburn in hers.

  “The bath is ready for you, your grace,” she said with a bow.

  The young woman really seemed to relish saying “your grace.” She put more feeling into those two words than any others.

  “I’ll see you both at dinner then,” Aefric said to his knights, as he stood.

  “Yes, your grace,” they both said, before Ser Yrsa added, “Sers Arras and Temet will be on duty this evening.”

  “Very good,” Aefric said, then wandered back into his bedroom, while his knights departed.

  The two serving girls were kneeling on a carpet of rushes, beside the tub. They looked from him to the Brightstaff in his hand — a touch of wonder in their eyes as they regarded it — and back.

  “You said the bath is ready, yes?” Aefric asked.

  “That’s right, your grace.” This from the one with darker hair, who’d called him in to his bath. “And we’re ready to assist, of course.”

  “May we help your grace out of his clothes?” the other serving girl asked, sounding hopeful and not being very subtle about the way her gaze moved over him.

  When he was growing up, Aefric had never thought of himself as particularly attractive. Not in this world, or the other. But he had to admit, since he’d become duke, that belief was being sorely put to the test.

  But all he wanted right now was a bath.

  “I’ve been bathing myself since I was a small child,” Aefric said. “I think I can handle it.”

  “Are you certain, your grace?” This from the one with darker hair. “We’d both be most eager to assist.”

  The one with hints of auburn in her hair nodded rapidly.

  “I’m certain,” Aefric said. “And I’m sure you both have other duties. Thank you very much.”

  The one with auburn in her hair looked as though she wanted to say something, but the other one quickly squeezed her forearm, and shook her head.

  They both bowed and accepted their dismissal.

  Alone at last, Aefric stripped and sank gratefully into the steaming water of the bath.

  Already his sore muscles started to thank him.

  Scrubbed and clean, Aefric felt almost like a new man. He even smelled like a new man. The soap he’d found had been crafted with bits of lavender in it, which was a much better smell than days of travel.

  And Aefric’d had time to think, while in the tub. Too much time, in fact.

  He’d come up with at least a dozen reasons why Mayor Brangton couldn’t have been behind those stone simulacra. And at least as many reasons why he was a likely suspect.

  This was always the problem with speculating when he didn’t have enough information. But if there was a secret to stopping himself from speculating at such times, he had yet to discover it.

  At the moment, he was leaning towards considering the mayor a likely suspect. The man was situated relatively closely, geographically. He had money, possibly enough to hire the kind of wizard he’d need for those spells.

  Probably not enough money to keep such a wizard on retainer. But that only made Mayor Brangton more likely. After all, keeping the wizard around after the spells were cast only increased the chance of discovery.

  Most of all, Mayor Brangton aspired to nobility. It was all too easy to imagine him trying to parley the discovery of multiple rich veins of gold into a barony. Say, covering the area from Lake Deepwater to the Dragonscar, and from Lake Dragonskull to the Risen Sea.

  Very easy to imagine.

  But, as always, Aefric found himself coming once more to the place these speculations always seemed to break down.

  First of all, if Brangton knew about the gold and the simulacra, why hold his silence when Aefric and his party passed through on their way to the Dragonscar?

  That was a hard one to overcome. Unless he’d either hoped the simulacra would kill all of them — which didn’t make sense if the end goal was a noble rank — or he thought they’d be interrupted on their way and have to turn back.

  If that was the case, then Mayor Brangton knew about the smugglers, and possibly the slavers.

  Aefric hoped not. Because if Brangton was working with smugglers and slavers, Aefric would soon be looking for a new mayor of Lachedran.

  Further, if Mayor Brangton had discovered the gold, why keep it a secret? Especially why use magic to protect that secret? Why not just come running to Water’s End with the discovery?

  Surely that would be a faster path to nobility.

  Which would mean — if Brangton was the culprit — that nobility alone would not be his motivation.

  Unless he’d thought of a different path than going to his duke…

  No. That seemed too unlikely to consider. His only other options would be going directly to King Colm, or hoping for support from Duke Wylyn of Silverlake.

  King Colm was far too happy with Aefric to support taking land away from him. He’d even expanded Aefric’s demesne by the barony of Netar, after Aefric had saved Armyr from invasion this past spring.

  A good barony, too. Distant from Aefric’s ducal lands, but on the Maiden’s Blood River, down near Armityr.

  So if nobility alone was not the goal, that begged the question of Mayor Brangton’s motivation. Which would start the speculations all over again.

  And, alas, much as Aefric might wish to sit in his tub and speculate all evening — if only for the peace and quiet — he had to dress and head down to dinner.

  He dried himself with a surprisingly soft linen towel dyed navy blue. From the same place he’d gotten the towel — a cabinet near the fireplace — he found brushes and combs to get his long blonde hair back under control.

  He dressed in a silk shirt of royal blue, quite nice and long enough to wear over hose. So he donned black hose to go with the shirt. Current fashion demanded a wide belt to go with the shirt and hose, and Aefric found just such a belt. Black leather, which went with a pair of ankle-high, cuffed shoes.

  Unfortunately, the belt was too wide for his sword or his wand. He’d really have to have those sheathes set for hooks or clasps. He’d been too used to needing … less temporary fixings for such things, while adventuring.

  Go tumbling down a mountain just once, and say goodbye to any sword or wand affixed only by hooks or clasps.

  But Aefric wasn’t likely to go tumbling down a mountain anytime soon.

  So he forewent his usual armament, beyond the Brightstaff itself, which went everywhere with him.

  He did tie a small pouch of coins and gems to his belt. He wasn’t likely to need them, but the habit of making sure he had money on his person was too old to argue with.

  He donned a ring woven from sixteen different shades of gold, that featured a large emerald. A gift from the queen. To complete his ensemble, he added a small necklace. A thin gold chain, and featuring only a small sapphire.

  A simple necklace, but he liked it, and it worked well with the shirt and his eyes.

  He checked himself in the mirror that was mounted near the bath, to make sure that he hadn’t committed any fashion sins that could be considered too egregious.