It was a three-story structure, though each of the second and third levels were half the size of the level below them, and seated at the back half of the building, which was at the very edge of the second ring and right above the buildings and warehouses of the docks below.

  Two guards stood at the double-doors, spears in hand.

  Despite the presence of Nashen Ol’Nashek, they crossed their spears over the doors as Aefric’s group approached.

  Aefric fought down a sigh. He didn’t have the time or the patience for this. The day had been long already.

  He was hot. He was irritated that he had to be here at all, and every minute he was here and not back at Water’s End likely increased the amount of offense he’d given the crown princess of Malimfar.

  And now there were guards standing between him and where he needed to go.

  With one spell he could blast those guards aside and open the doors at the same time.

  It’d be quick. It’d be easy. And in the mood Aefric was in, he had to admit, he wanted to do it. To take out some of this frustrated anger on at least one of the obstacles in his path.

  Of course, if he did cast that spell, chances were, the guards would not survive. And if there was anyone in the room on the other side of those doors, they’d be in for a world of hurt as well.

  The guards didn’t deserve to die. Not because their duke was hot, tired, and frustrated. And if there was anyone on the other side of those doors, well, they deserved death even less. They weren’t even trying to bar Aefric’s way.

  Ah, well. Maybe the guards were smart enough to recognize their duke, and open the way for him with just a word?

  It was worth a shot.

  “Open the doors,” Aefric said.

  The guards took in the crowd. Aefric, with the Brightstaff in hand. Seven knights, all bearing the ducal sigil on their tabards. Twenty-four soldiers, also wearing tabards with the Deepwater sigil.

  Oh, and the chief assistant to the harbormaster, along with a dozen members of the dock patrol who looked very much as though they’d rather be anywhere else.

  And yet, the guards held firm. Because of course they did. Because of course it couldn’t be that freaking easy just this once.

  And the worst part was, Aefric had to admire their devotion to duty, even in the face of nobility and overwhelming odds.

  “The council is in session,” one guard said, in reply. He looked about a decade older than Aefric, and from the scars on his hands — and the one on his cheek — he’d seen his share of fighting. “No one may enter.”

  “You are addressing his grace, the Duke of Deepwater,” Ser Beornric snapped.

  “Then I must beg your grace’s pardon,” the guard said, bowing — and his younger, shakier partner bowed as well — “but I have my orders, and I’m not to admit anyone.”

  Ser Beornric started to say something, but Aefric stilled him with a raised hand.

  “What is your name?” Aefric asked the guard.

  “Delif, your grace,” the guard said.

  “Well, Delif, I commend you for your diligence. However. Allow me to ask a question. From whom did these orders come?”

  “From Sijen, the Mayor’s Right Hand, your grace.”

  “Mayor’s Right Hand is a formal title, your grace,” Nashen Ol’Nashek said quickly. “She sees that the mayor’s will is carried out.”

  “So,” Aefric said. “Ultimately, your orders come from the mayor. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, your grace.”

  “And I outrank your mayor. Don’t I.”

  Nothing about Aefric’s words or tone could have been mistaken for a question.

  Delif opened his mouth, but hesitated.

  “After all,” Aefric said. “This is Ajenmoor. And Ajenmoor, last time I checked, was part of the duchy of Deepwater. My duchy. I’m correct about that, am I not, Ser Yrsa?”

  “You are, your grace,” Ser Yrsa said, her voice low and dangerous.

  “Then I must assume that your mayor shows me proper obedience,” Aefric said, “and will allow me to overrule him in this matter.”

  Aefric took a step closer to the guard.

  “That is,” Aefric continued, allowing his own voice to become low and dangerous, “unless you believe Ajenmoor would defy its lawful overlord. There’s a word for that, I believe…”

  “Ajenmoor does not defy our duke,” Nashen Ol’Nashek said, practically stumbling over both his words and his feet as he rushed forward and shoved those spears aside. “You will open these doors for his grace at once, or I will see you both punished severely.”

  Delif looked at his partner, sighed, and pulled a key from back behind his belt. He unlocked the doors.

  “By law,” Delif said, sounding defeated, “no one is allowed to come armed into a council meeting. But I imagine your grace intends to overrule that as well.”

  Aefric didn’t bother answering. He nodded at Ser Yrsa.

  Ser Yrsa kicked the doors open.

  Those great, heavy maces in her hands, Ser Yrsa kicked open the double-doors of the Ajenmoor city council building.

  Shocking the dozen or so clerks who likely had been working very hard before an angry, scarred knight burst in with murder in her eyes.

  One of them — a man who had to have seen fifty summers — fainted dead away.

  Ser Yrsa actually looked about for threats before lowering her maces and stepping to one side. She announced in a loud, clear voice, “His grace, Ser Aefric Brightstaff, Hero of Deepwater, Hero of Frozen Ridge, Baron of Netar, and Duke of Deepwater.”

  The clerks were quick to gather themselves enough to bow as Aefric entered. Though they looked more than a little frightened by the number of knights and soldiers who followed their duke in and up the wide, tiled stairs.

  More guards at each of the next two floors. The first set just stood aside. The second set were sweating and unsteady, but didn’t look willing to yield the door to the council chamber.

  “Your grace?” Ser Yrsa said, and Aefric knew that tone. She was more than willing to take them both down.

  “Just announce me, for the moment.”

  Ser Yrsa announced her duke through those closed double-doors. And this time she did it loud enough that Aefric was pretty sure she could be heard everywhere in Ajenmoor.

  The doors were opened with impressive speed by a puzzled-looking young clerk.

  Ser Yrsa entered first, slow and angry. Ser Beornric and the knights of Aefric’s personal guard followed, after making sure that the door guardians and their spears were well back.

  Aefric entered next, followed by the two dozen soldiers of his personal guard, who fanned out behind him.

  The council chamber was squared on the wall where Aefric had entered, but ended in a curved wall, mostly of glass, giving a wonderful view of the harbor and afternoon sky.

  On the tiles of the floor was a mosaic map featuring the sea lanes and ports connected with Ajenmoor. Or at least, those which had been connected with Ajenmoor before the wars. Aefric couldn’t know how many of those other ports yet stood, let alone how many were trading these days.

  A long table followed the curve of the room, even though it looked as though it had been carved from a single trunk. Had to have been made by shipwrights. No one else was so good at smoothly curving wood.

  A half-dozen clerks flattened against the side walls, trying very hard to stay out of the way while looking pale and shocked at the presence of armed knights and soldiers.

  Aefric ignored the clerks.

  Fifteen men and women sat at the table, every seat full. All of them well dressed, and many of them with the weathered look of those who had worked ships or docks themselves, to one extent or another. And all of whom looked offended at the presence of weapons.

  Interestingly, three of those at the table were derekek, two males and a female.

  But Aefric’s attention went straight to the mayor. He had the look of Ser Micham. Not just in the brown of his hair and beard — though the mayor’s hair grayed at the temples — but in in the shape of his chin. He looked as Ser Micham might look in another … twenty years, if he stayed in shape.

  The mayor was dressed in greens, both velvet tunic and hose, and his gold chain of office, of course, though a rust red watch cap sat before him on the table. Likely removed because the room was practically baking in the afternoon heat.

  In fact, Aefric could smell that the meeting had been going on for some time.

  “Your grace,” the mayor said, scraping his chair backward so he could stand and bow. And just like that, the whole room was filled with the sound of scraping chair legs, so the whole of the council — and their clerks — could bow to their duke before the council reclaimed their seats.

  “If I might ask your grace,” the mayor said, once he was seated again, “to what do we owe this most unexpected … and martial … pleasure?”

  “You may recall, about an aett ago, that my court wizard, Karbin, came to you for ships.”

  “Oh, of course, your grace,” the mayor said, and other members of the council nodded agreement. “We were most happy to provide those ships. And I understand their mission was quite successful.”

  “Mostly successful,” Aefric said. “But I sent your son, Ser Micham back to Ajenmoor, with two soldiers to aid him. His mission was to see a ship full of refugees and recovered cargo brought back to Water’s End.”

  Aefric wasn’t sure what reaction he expected from the mayor at that moment, but anger wasn’t it.

  “My son?” the mayor snapped at a man down at the end of the table, to Aefric’s right, who looked unhappy at the revelation.

  “Imagine my surprise,” Aefric continued, “when I returned to Water’s End to find none of these things waiting for me. Not Ser Micham. Not the two soldiers. Not the thirty-eight refugees. And not the cargo.”

  “Well, your grace,” the mayor started, his tone seething, but Aefric could tell the anger was not directed at him. “That ship has sat in the harbor since its return to Ajenmoor. Would you care to tell our duke why that is, Galdiff?”

  Galdiff, the man the mayor had snapped at before, drew a steadying breath through a narrow nose. He was a tall, slender man, but tanned and weathered. The sort who was probably stronger than he looked. Like a rigger.

  His tunic and hose were both a dark brown, and his balding pate still hung on to some of its black hair. Many men would have grown a beard, or at least a mustache, to make up for the lack on their heads, but Galdiff did not.

  He steepled his fingers, which had the effect of showing off that he was missing half a small finger, on his right hand.

  “Your grace,” Galdiff said, inclining his head. “That the current situation has imposed on your time and expectations is regrettable. However, there are matters of law and custom that must be addressed and must not be ignored.”

  “Oh, do go on,” Aefric said, attempting to convey with his tone that he was only too happy to provide this man with extra rope, that he might hang himself.

  “The ships that answered your grace’s call to arms were mine,” Galdiff said. “And I was most happy to provide them, and to serve my duke in his time of need.”

  Galdiff raised one eyebrow at the mayor.

  “However, both law and custom make the matter of spoils quite clear. My ships answered the call. My ships stood to battle. My sailors faced the hazard. The spoils belong to my company.”

  “Under normal circumstances, yes,” the mayor started, but had the good sense to stop talking when Aefric raised a forestalling hand.

  “And what spoils do you believe you’re entitled to?” Aefric asked Galdiff with an insincere smile.

  “All spoils from that day, your grace,” Galdiff said easily. “The mastless ship. The Swift Wave. Along with any booty recovered and any and all bounties and rewards due for prisoners taken.”

  “I see,” Aefric said, and now his tone was getting a worried look from Ser Beornric. “And do you count those refugees as booty?”

  “Of course not, your grace,” Galdiff said. “Any more than I count this Ser Micham, or your two soldiers. However, as some people” — here Galdiff glared at the mayor — “refuse to acknowledge what is mine by right of both law and custom, the ship, and all aboard, will not dock until the matter is settled.”

  “I see,” Aefric said, and Ser Beornric took a step closer, as though to hold Aefric back, if needed.

  “I’m glad your grace understands the situation better than … certain others.”

  “Oh, I understand the situation quite well,” Aefric said. “I’m afraid, however, that you are in error, regarding the facts of what transpired that day. As you would know, if Ser Micham had been allowed to dock and present the letter I prepared for the mayor.”

  Galdiff frowned, but checked himself from interrupting.

  “What you refer to as ‘booty,’” Aefric said, “was stolen, smuggled cargo that I and mine recovered. In the Dragonscar. With no ships around. Every crate of it aboard your ship out there in the harbor is only aboard your ship because I commandeered it for the task of transport.”

  Galdiff frowned.

  “Now,” Aefric said, thoughtfully. “I believe we’ve covered Ser Micham, the soldiers, the refugees and the cargo on that ship in the harbor. That brings us to the mastless ship.”

  “A ship chased down, recovered, and brought back by my ships and sailors,” Galdiff said. “Surely your grace won’t dispute that point.”

  Aefric favored Galdiff with a smile that made the man wince.

  “Do you know why that ship lacks even a single mast?” Aefric asked. “Because I destroyed both its mainmast and mizzenmast myself. And though your ships did chase it down as it tried to row away, its captain and the core of its crew had already been defeated and taken captive by my knights, my soldiers, and myself. Your ship and crew never truly entered the hazard in dealing with those slavers.”

  “Well—” Galdiff tried, but Aefric kept talking.

  “Therefore,” he said, “by your own laws and customs, that ship is mine to dispose of. Not yours.”

  Galdiff frowned, but said nothing.

  “And I,” Aefric said, “give it to your mayor on behalf of his fine city.”

  “Thank you, your grace,” the mayor said, sounding amazed.

  Aefric gave him a smile. “Ser Micham tells me you’ve wished for just such a ship to use as a floating jail. Ajenmoor now has one.”

  “Your grace is too kind and generous,” the mayor said happily. “I hope he knows that all the resources of Ajenmoor are his to command, if ever he has need.”

  “We’ll return to that, I’m sure,” Aefric said, turning his attention back to Galdiff. “Now. I believe that brings us to the question of the Swift Wave.”

  “Surely your grace does not contest that it is mine by right of conquest,” Galdiff said, sounding desperate. “My ships captured it.”

  “I certainly could dispute the point,” Aefric said. “Its captain and most of its fighting crew were captured by myself and my knights and soldiers. Further, my court wizard assisted in the capture of the ship itself. In an ambush made possible by my previous actions.”

  Aefric shook his head. “Nevertheless, I will not make these disputes.”

  “Thank you, your grace,” Galdiff said, dipping his head in a bow. “The Swift Wave will serve well as—”

  “Instead, I shall take it from you as punishment for interfering with my knight, in the performance of his duty in my name.”

  “Your grace,” Galdiff said, but Aefric spoke over whatever the man was going to say next.

  “Pray I consider that sufficient punishment,” Aefric said. “And that you do not give me cause to punish you further.”

  Galdiff frowned, but checked himself from speaking.

  “Ser Micham was about my business. And you have needlessly delayed him — not to mention those poor refugees — for nearly an aett. I will not have it.”

  Galdiff bowed his head. “Yes, your grace. I … am sorry, your grace.”

  “Very well,” Aefric said, nodding. “Now. Despite your … ill-considered actions in that matter, I will concede that your ships were timely, and your sailors a help to me. In light of that, I will allow you to keep any and all bounties and rewards due for the smugglers and slavers captured that day.”

  Galdiff blinked in surprise. “Thank you, your grace.”

  “Are you certain, your grace?” the mayor asked, perhaps hoping to direct those monies into his own pockets. “That’s not an inconsiderable amount.”

  “He and his answered the call quickly and effectively, and were ready to face the hazard, if needed. That should not be overlooked or forgotten,” Aefric said, then hardened his voice. “Though what followed was inexcusable.”

  “I understand, your grace,” Galdiff said, frowning in thought. “And I will remember, for the future.”

  “Good. See that you do.” Aefric turned to the mayor. “Now let us see about these ships.”

  Apparently, the question of that ship full of “booty” out in the harbor had been the sticking point in that council meeting. Because once Aefric resolved that issue, the council was more than ready to gather their papers and end the meeting.

  Then again, the presence of so many armed knights and soldiers might have contributed to their eagerness to be elsewhere.

  Once the others and their clerks had cleared out, the only council members remaining were Galdiff, the mayor — whose name was Vagran Ol’Talas — and the harbormaster, Jojen Ol’Talas, who turned out to be the mayor’s second son.

  Jojen Ol’Talas had the same hair as his brother and father, though his eyes were a lighter hazel, and his chin and lips would make him pretty, rather than handsome.

  Of course, age might’ve been a factor there. Because if Jojen Ol’Talas was beyond the age of majority, it couldn’t have been by more than a single summer. Two at the most.

  Aefric found himself feeling pity for Nashen Ol’Nashek. Having to obey the orders of a man a third his age.

  Speaking of whom, the chief assistant to the harbormaster was waiting for them when Aefric and the others emerged from the council building.