In addition to the old Hrafntonn Warehouse on the Indecisive River, Ashling gave Aefric three other properties around Kivash, rather than just the two she’d promised. The Sunset Inn, a newer two-story white stone building on the north side of the river, near the docks. The Starlight Stones, a much larger inn on the south side, near the gate to the Malimfari road that paralleled the river.

  Perhaps most impressive, she gave Aefric the Wide Sea Shipping Company, which had a pier of its own on the docks on the south side of the river, four very large warehouses at the foot of that pier, and a business office close to the town center.

  Not to mention the company’s trading fleet of twelve three-masted caravels, and sixteen two-masted schooners.

  All these gifts.

  Not so long ago, all of Aefric’s wealth had been what he could carry on his back. Of course, that was not an inconsiderable amount, given a certain sack he possessed that could contain a great deal more than it appeared.

  Nevertheless, the sum total of Aefric’s wealth in those days — not quite two seasons past — might have been enough to purchase a decent tower, or a small keep on an unimpressive plot of land.

  Now, his wealth was such that he could be given two inns and a shipping company, in a major trade city, just so that the escape route from his new castle wouldn’t stand out.

  The amount of wealth he had now was staggering, when he stopped to think about it. More than he could have conceived of as a street rat kid in Sartis.

  Then again, in many ways, the wealth wasn’t his. He held it in trust for the people of Deepwater, and for the future dukes and duchesses. Countless people relied on him to use this wealth the right ways.

  Well, most of it wasn’t his, at least.

  Aefric couldn’t help but notice that the deeds to the inns, warehouse and shipping company, were in his name, but not his title.

  They’d been given to him as personal gifts, rather than gifts to the Duke of Deepwater, like the castle was.

  “Why do you think that is?” Aefric asked his knight-advisers.

  It was a warm morning in late summer as he asked that question, and the three of them sat in their seats on the afterdeck of the Duke’s Hand once more, sailing across the beautiful, dark blue Risen Sea on their way back north to Water’s End.

  Aefric wore a lightweight, cotton tunic of Deepwater gray over navy blue hose, with the wand Garram at his belt, and the Brightstaff standing beside his wooden chair.

  Trailing behind them, of course, was the Swift Wave, carrying the soldiers of Aefric’s personal guard.

  “Who among us can guess the reasons of a Fyrenn duchess?” Ser Yrsa asked, in return. She was wearing her tunic and hose of dark browns again, which always looked somewhat wrong to Aefric.

  She looked most natural in her armor.

  “I think I might hazard an attempt,” Ser Beornric said. He wore tunic and hose today as well, though his were dark red over dark orange.

  Though honestly, Aefric thought Ser Beornric looked more natural in full plate armor as well.

  “Duchess Ashling seemed to want to emphasize your shared friendship on this visit,” Ser Beornric said.

  Ser Yrsa scoffed.

  “No,” Ser Beornric said. “It’s true. She may be a Fyrenn, and all that comes with that, but she clearly made strong overtures of friendship to Aefric.”

  “For her own benefit, no doubt,” Ser Yrsa said.

  “Perhaps,” Ser Beornric said. “She certainly benefits from the friendship. But she also knows her reputation, and she knows we know her reputation. Gifts directly to Aefric Brightstaff rather than to the Duke of Deepwater strike me as trying to say that they are personal gifts to a friend, rather than political gifts to an ally.”

  “More likely,” Ser Yrsa said, “she didn’t want to give up the tax base.”

  “No,” Aefric said. “The taxes she gave up. That was quite explicit in the gift.”

  “I’m sure Kivash’s new mayor loved that,” Ser Beornric said, chuckling.

  “I still don’t trust it,” Ser Yrsa said. “She may call them gifts, but there is a price tag attached. Mark my words.”

  “A price tag beyond friendship?” Ser Beornric said, philosophically. “After all, she has allies and she has enemies, but how many friends can she actually number?”

  “So you think the novelty of having a friend might be coloring her actions?” Ser Yrsa asked. She ran one finger down the scar on her left cheek. “I could see that. But once that novelty has worn off, she’ll be all the more dangerous.”

  “Ser Yrsa,” Aefric started, but Ser Beornric exchanged a quick glance with Ser Yrsa and held up a hand to request that Aefric stop talking.

  Aefric gave his knights a quizzical look.

  “We’ve been meaning to bring this up for some time now,” Ser Beornric said.

  “We didn’t, at first, because you were new to your title,” Ser Yrsa said. “And emphasizing the titles and courtesies of others seemed like the best way to help acclimate you to receiving them yourself.”

  “We thought you might take a clue from the speech of other nobles,” Ser Beornric said, “but that you haven’t might indicate that you’ve been misinterpreting what you’ve heard. And I suspect it’s begun to put some of your knights on edge.”

  “All right,” Aefric said, cocking an eyebrow. “What have I been doing wrong?”

  “It’s not wrong,” Ser Yrsa said, “so much as unnecessary.”

  “We’re talking about your use of courtesies,” Ser Beornric said.

  “What about it?”

  “You are a duke,” Ser Beornric said. “One of the premier nobles of Armyr. When speaking to anyone who owes you fealty—”

  “Or any knight or ler at all,” Ser Yrsa added.

  “—you are only expected to give them courtesies when speaking formally.”

  “So I should be calling you Yrsa and Beornric, most of the time.”

  “Exactly,” Yrsa said.

  “So when we go to Norra for the Feast of Dereth Sehk, I should greet Baroness Herewyn as ‘your lordship,’ but otherwise just call her ‘Herewyn?’”

  “I think she’ll be happier for it,” Beornric said. “Call her ‘your lordship’ all the time and she’ll think you’re being formal for a reason.”

  “Your instincts are good,” Yrsa said. “Trust them about when you should switch to courtesies. But in general, you should feel free to forgo them, when addressing your vassals. Or any knight or ler.”

  “I’ll try,” Aefric said. “May take some getting used to.” He cocked his head to one side. “So that’s why King Colm sometimes just calls me Aefric.”

  “Exactly,” Beornric said. “And he and Queen Eppida will probably take to calling you Aefric all the time, once it’s clear that you’re comfortable calling your lessers by their names and not their courtesies.”

  “I hate that term,” Aefric said with a grimace. “Lessers.”

  “It’s not a derogation,” Yrsa said. “It’s a statement of political and social position. Everyone in Armyr is your lesser except the king and queen, the prince and princess, Duchess Ashling, and Duke Wylyn.”

  “And arguments could be made about those last two,” Beornric said.

  “Fine, fine,” Aefric said. “I won’t argue the point. I just don’t like the word.”

  “Then let us discuss something else,” Beornric said. “Such as what you intend to do with all that art, now that you’ve stripped the Hrafntonn family museum.”

  “You’re not just putting it in storage?” Yrsa asked, frowning. “I hope you don’t intend to sell it in Kivash. The locals wouldn’t take that well.”

  “Not at all,” Aefric said, smiling. “This is my plan. I’ll send Karbin down to Kivash to work through the wards on those grimoires. Then, before he leaves again, he will ship all the contents of the Hrafntonn family museum — excepting the magic gladius and spear, which I’m keeping — to the Hrafntonn family at Svarturvigi.”

  “To be ransomed?” Yrsa asked.

  “No,” Aefric said. “Just a gift. Taking their castle is one thing. Taking their family history is another. I don’t want the contents of the museum rooms — or the portraits and tapestries in that sixth-floor hallway, for that matter — so why not send them back to the Hrafntonns as a gesture of goodwill?”

  “They should be ransomed,” Beornric said. “If you give them as gifts, you’ll insult the Hrafntonns.”

  “But … I don’t want these things anyway. What’s wrong with simply giving them back? Why is that an insult?”

  “Why must a knight ransom back his horse and armor when he’s unhorsed in a joust?” Beornric said. “Because this is how things are done.”

  Yrsa nodded seriously.

  Aefric blew out a sigh.

  “Fine,” he said. “Once Karbin finishes with the wards on the grimoires, I’ll have him see about ransoming those things back to the Hrafntonns.”

  “But not the grimoires?” Yrsa asked.

  “No, those are mine now,” Aefric said. “That’s why Karbin will handle contacting the Hrafntonns. I know he’ll understand. Larus Hrafntonn had the choice between taking his tools and weapons, or taking his grimoires. He made his choice. He has no right to ask to keep both.”

  “Fair enough,” Beornric said.

  Aefric sighed. “I do hate ransoming a family back its history, though.”

  “Well, then here’s something you might like,” Yrsa said. “Would you please take Deirdre to bed before she goes mad from frustration?”

  Aefric shook his head, sure he hadn’t heard that right.

  Whatever Aefric’s expression was, Beornric laughed to see it.

  “Don’t forget,” Beornric said, still chuckling. “Knights are nobles. Pursuing the noble privilege with knights is perfectly acceptable.”

  “For that matter,” Yrsa said, “you might consider Vria and Arras. I’m pretty sure they’d both be happy for the chance.”

  “Knowing those two,” Beornric said, “they’d be even happier if called to your bed together.”

  “Too true,” Yrsa said. “They spend plenty of nights in each other’s beds anyway.”

  “All right, all right,” Aefric said. “Your point is made. I’ll keep that in mind. Can we turn to another topic?”

  “Of course, your grace,” Beornric said with a wolfish smile. “Shall we discuss your matrimonial prospects?”

  “It occurs to me,” Yrsa said, “that Ashling’s endgame for this new friendship of hers could be marriage.”

  “It’s not,” Aefric said quickly. “She knows you two have me too concerned about bloodlines, and she’s already got an acknowledged bastard in line for Merrek.”

  “That’s not just a rumor then?” Yrsa said, sounding impressed. “She’s doing a good job of keeping attention away from him.”

  “Right then,” Beornric said, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s go over the list of actual possibilities.”

  It was a topic Aefric didn’t love, but he knew he had to deal with. So he settled in, and let his knight-advisers lead the discussion.

  Ashling may have had a point about Aefric’s advisers. He hadn’t chosen them himself.

  But he’d come to know them pretty well over the past season. He understood their perspectives and their biases, and he was confident that they would respect and support whatever decision he made.

  A duke could do a lot worse.

  Preview of Book Four: The Deadly Feast

  Chapter One

  Aefric Brightstaff awoke suddenly in a bed that was not his own. Old instincts fed adrenaline through his system, waking him completely as his eyes darted about. Unsure for the moment where he was. And why.

  He lay on a mattress well-stuffed with soft feathers. Sheets that weren’t silk, but close enough to tell him he wasn’t in a cell, or some roadside inn.

  The windows were shuttered closed, but that likely didn’t matter much. The cracks around them were dark. Not yet dawn. Depending on the moon, the shutters could have stood wide open and not offered much more light.

  He could brighten the room with a spell, of course, but light might draw unwanted attention. Besides. His eyes had adjusted well enough to the dark. He could see the chamber about him in shades of gray.

  The walls, floor and ceiling were stone — mostly gray, even when lit, he now recalled. Woven carpets on the floor.

  Carpets of … reds and blues. Was that right? He thought it was. And from the sweet scent, fresh herbs had been scattered underneath those carpets recently.

  An armoire. Oak. Copper wash basin, with a pair of ewers for water, as well as towels, soaps, and a razor.

  Luggage in front of the armoire. Two trunks. Both … his? Yes. His.

  The next sight made him sigh with relief.

  The Brightstaff stood tall beside the bed. Next to an oak night table, but not leaning against it. Comfortably close at hand.

  The Brightstaff, Aefric’s namesake, was more than six feet of white thunderwood — about his own height — with a worn, brown leather wrap where he most often held the staff. Embedded in its top, a yellow diamond about the size of his thumb.

  Reassured by the presence of his favorite tool and weapon — as well as his apparently undisturbed luggage — he continued looking about.

  A good-sized hearth, with no fire blazing because it was still summer. Late summer now, but still summer. The room was neither too hot nor too cold. Something to do with the background buzz of magic all about him.

  A buzz that he recognized.

  It was the magic of clay and stone, balancing the temperature of the room. Pulling heat from within the surface of Qorunn when needed, and shunting excess heat down and away when appropriate.

  Fine, skillful work by a dedicated vohlcairn, a wizard who focused almost entirely on the magic of clay and stone.

  Of course. Late summer. A castle room whose temperature was controlled by a vohlcairn.

  He was in Norrtarr, in the barony of Norra. Safe within the castle of one of his own vassals. Because he was no longer Aefric Brightstaff, wandering adventurer.

  Ever since this past spring, he was now his grace, Ser Aefric Brightstaff, Duke of Deepwater and Baron of Netar. Not to mention a couple of other honorifics that were often included alongside his name.

  Part of the reason he carried so much luggage these days. He had appearances to maintain. So he rarely went anywhere without several changes of clothes, as well as other things he might need.

  He carried more than usual for this trip, because he’d come to Norra for the Feast of Dereth Sehk. And he wasn’t entirely sure what would be expected of him, over the days that followed.

  He eased back down on the mattress. Thinking about the politics and pageantry to come over the next few days. He was awake now, and he might as well—

  A small, feminine sound of protest came from beside him in bed, and a woman rolled over and snuggled in against his chest. She nuzzled his shoulder like a scent-marking cat, trailing long, loose curls in her wake. Chestnut curls, though he knew that more by memory than by sight in the dim light.

  She settled down with a happy sigh.

  Octave. Pretty Octave, with her lavender scent, her wide blue eyes and her soft, tanned skin. A young serving woman here at Norrtarr, in his bed tonight providing him leaba. The pleasures of a bedmate, freely offered by a commoner to a visiting, titled Armyrian noble.

  It had been Octave who’d first introduced the old tradition to Aefric, this past spring, when he’d come through on the way to his new ducal seat at Water’s End.

  She’d come to his rooms that night. Explained the tradition patiently. Answered all his questions. Waited with bated breath to hear whether Aefric would accept her offer or send her away.

  He’d accepted. An eye-opening experience in many ways.

  And now, tonight, Aefric had once more returned to Norrtarr for a single night. He hadn’t been sure what to expect. He’d considered the possibility, of course, that he’d spend that night alone. As he had so often, when he was an adventurer.

  But nights alone were not common among the nobility of Armyr. When traveling, a titled noble might be offered leaba, but whether at home or on the road, any member of the nobility — no matter how great or small, no matter single or married — might go to another noble hoping to share “the noble privilege.”

  By which Armyrians meant a night of pursuing the bliss moment together for no other reason than pleasure.

  It was purely optional. Either party could refuse without insult or loss of face. No gifts were expected or allowed.

  As the concept had been explained to Aefric, the nobles had decided some time back that the political risks posed by jealousy and illicit affairs outweighed the need to keep a desirable lover to oneself.

  Of course, the development of the bitter nysta tea, which prevented conception when drunk by either or both parties before spending a night together, seemed a likely contributor to the practice.

  Either way, where the nobility led, the common folk followed. And in most cities and large towns, the commoners were as likely to go bed hopping as the nobles, these days.

  Noble or common, it seemed that Armyrians loved sex.

  And none more so than the knights. As far as he could tell, Aefric’s Knights of the Lake — the elite of his personal guard — were all sleeping together in various configurations.

  Another small sound came from Octave, followed by whispered words.

  “Your grace is awake. I thought I’d properly exhausted you earlier.”

  “Sorry,” Aefric said, kissing her forehead and stroking the smooth, sleep-warmed skin of her side and flank. “Go back to sleep.”

  Octave raised up on one elbow. Regarded him with wide eyes that he knew were a pretty shade of blue, though in the dim light they looked pale gray.

  She trailed her fingers over Aefric’s collarbone. And for a change, not near one of his scars.

  “When last I had the pleasure of sharing your grace’s bed,” she said softly, “you wore a crystal on a thin gold chain. A gift from a lost love. No longer?”