Aefric tried to give her a glare, but the knight’s humor was glare-proof.

  Worse, it was contagious, and Aefric had to turn away before he smiled despite himself.

  “All right,” Aefric said. “Ser Deirdre, go over all the details of Ajenmoor with Ser Calder and Kentigern. Everything you can think of. Then I want the three of you to interview Morgard. Find out just what kind of business he and Brangford Couglas have been doing. Ser Calder and Kentigern will handle the questioning, Ser Deirdre will support as needed.”

  “Yes, your grace,” all three said with surprising synchronicity.

  “I’ll take your report over dinner tonight—”

  “Your grace,” Kentigern interrupted, because of course he did.

  “Yes?”

  “Your grace has not dined with his court since returning from the Dragonscar.”

  “Fine,” Aefric said with a sigh. “Tonight I’ll dine with my court. You three report to me just before dinner. But this afternoon is my own. Any objections?”

  Wisely, no one objected.

  After lunch, Aefric did not go clean up and change, much to the consternation of his daytime head valet, Ocheda.

  But Aefric knew that his afternoon would involve as much effort as his morning had, albeit in a very different way. So he put off a proper cleaning and changing for later, and went into his workshop.

  And there, he dedicated his afternoon to his magic.

  Oh, if only he could have spent every afternoon this way!

  He’d have to talk to Kentigern. Clearly the Soulfists had found time for their own researches and experiments, which meant that it was possible to add such things to a duke’s schedule without the whole of the duchy falling apart.

  True, experience was probably a factor. They had been running the duchy for generations, while he was still settling into the role.

  Still, there had to be some kind of middle ground. Because if he didn’t get more time with his magic, well, it would start to have deleterious effects on his mood. And that wouldn’t be good for the duchy either, now would it?

  So Aefric made a mental note to discuss the topic with Kentigern, as he closed the heavy door behind him, and lit the pillar candles around his workshop with a gesture.

  The whitewashed walls. The twin desks in opposing corners with related diagrams tacked to nearby walls. The circles on the floor. The cabinets and closet of ingredients, reagents, and apparatus.

  It really was an excellent place to work.

  Normally, Aefric would have begun with some dweomerblade exercises, to get his limbs moving and his magic flowing, but after the morning he’d had, that was hardly necessary.

  So instead, he shifted gears, and threw himself into an almost entirely intellectual exercise.

  He sat down with the first of the Soulfist grimoires, and began to work on translating it.

  Every so often, Aefric had heard non-magic-users talk about grimoires, and what they had to say invariably amused him. They always seemed to think that a grimoire was half seedy diary and half recipe book. Further, that a grimoire was written in some kind of complex system of cyphers that had only to be cracked, to have its secrets spread out wide before any given reader.

  Most of them seemed convinced that grimoires were magical objects unto themselves, while a handful insisted that they were nothing more than memory keys to secrets too powerful for a mind to hold all at once.

  The truth, of course, lay somewhere in the middle of all these things.

  Grimoires included records of a magic-user’s experiments and discoveries, as well as their deeds and aspirations.

  They were entirely idiosyncratic, in structure, in approach, and even in language. Different languages expressed nuances of ideas differently. And so a sentence that began in the common tongue might touch upon a concept that expressed clearest in High Eldrani, but required a verb from Dreykeke.

  And that was only an example from Aefric’s own grimoire.

  Understanding the magic contained in a grimoire meant understanding the mind of the magic-user.

  This was where wizards, with their logic, had an edge over Aefric. Aefric’s intuition might help him grasp a concept here or make a leap there, but it didn’t lend itself as well to the systematic comprehension of a grimoire the way a wizard’s command of the logic of magic did.

  But Aefric would get there. And he felt as though he was getting close.

  He held that first grimoire of the Soulfists in his hands. Calmed his mind. He reached with his thoughts into the grimoire.

  That was one place that many of the lay people were close about grimoires. They weren’t truly magical items the way a flying carpet would be, but they were the focus point of a magic-user who inscribed his or her magic within them.

  In the process, grimoires gained … not a sentience, per se, but a coherence, aligned with the thoughts and the magic of their author. And they did not willingly or easily give up their secrets to a stranger.

  And so Aefric reached into the grimoire with his thoughts, and he carried with them the seal of his office, and his personal seal.

  He was the rightful Duke of Deepwater. And this grimoire had once belonged to a rightful Duke of Deepwater. That connection would assert to the grimoire both that its author was dead, and that the grimoire was now rightfully the possession of Aefric Brightstaff, current Duke of Deepwater.

  When Aefric felt a sort of … harmonic chime in his head, he knew that the grimoire had acknowledged him and his right to read it.

  The acknowledgment came fast this time. That was good. Perhaps before long he wouldn’t need that step at all. By then the grimoire would want to yield its secrets, and assist Aefric in interpreting it.

  But he was not at that stage yet.

  And so, Aefric opened the grimoire to its first page, took out his notes from last time, and spent a good deal of time continuing his efforts at understanding what he was reading.

  He continued working on that for some time. Filling four pages with notes and ideas about that first, single page.

  He was getting closer. He was sure of it. Circling the ideas in that first page, with each pass bringing him nearer to understanding.

  Soon. It would happen soon.

  Once he had gone as far as was profitable in his work with the grimoire that day, Aefric moved to the circles, and practiced the methods of raising and channeling power. After that, he worked through a series of spells designed to test his efficiency with that power.

  This was a trick he’d learned from Kainemorton. To develop a series of spells that did the same thing, each differently.

  In this case, it was to bring a single pillar candle down from the wall, move it around the room in a pattern, change the color of the flame four times as the candle progressed about the room, and then return the candle to its holder.

  One trip used more power to hold and move the candle. The second focused on the wick. The third on the flame itself, and the fourth on the air, and the pattern of the movements.

  Each spell accomplishing the exact same thing. But each spell requiring different foci, and differing amounts of power.

  As Kainemorton had taught Aefric, once he could cast all four spells with the exact same amount of effort and power, he would have mastered the techniques involved, and should develop a new test.

  He had just run through those spells the third time, when there was a knock on his door.

  He sighed. Stretched. Called the Brightstaff to his hand and went to the door and opened it.

  “Your grace,” Ocheda said with a bow as severe as everything else about her, “instructed me to knock when the time had come for him to bathe and dress for dinner. That time has come.”

  “Thank you, Ocheda,” Aefric said, and closed the door on a good afternoon’s workout.

  In the world where Aefric had grown up as Keifer McShane, a “bathroom” was pretty any room with a toilet.

  That was not the case here in Qorunn. Such a room was called a “privy” or “garderobe” or something similar.

  A bathroom here was an entire room set aside for bathing. And like most of the rooms in Aefric’s ducal apartments, his bathroom here at Water’s End was larger than it needed to be, and had a window with an impressive view of Lake Deepwater.

  Taking in the view, it seemed, was considered part of bathing, for a duke. Apparently, past dukes and duchesses of Deepwater had used bath time to ruminate or meditate on the problems they faced.

  No one was ever surprised if Aefric wanted to simply sit and soak in the tub for a time. In fact, on those rare occasions when he did so, the servants even offered light snacks to nibble on, or wine or sharabi to drink.

  But then, that was as much as he would allow his servants to do for him, when it came to his bath. Apparently he could have had servants scrub him, wash his hair, and dry him off, had he chosen. But that … that just seemed wrong.

  He allowed them to prepare his bath for him, bring him towels, robes and dressing gowns, even provide snacks or drinks, should the occasion call for it.

  But when it came to the actual bathing, Aefric handled matters himself.

  Bathing here still felt decadent.

  The tub was pure luxury. White marble, veined with silver and gold, like the rest of his bathroom. Large enough that Aefric could have invited seven others to join him in that tub, without it feeling crowded.

  Not that Aefric could imagine bathing with seven other people. A special someone such as Maev or Byrhta, certainly. But even the thought of the two of them joining him at once, he knew, was nothing more than a fantasy that would never actually happen.

  And probably shouldn’t, for that matter.

  But seven others? That just sounded unwieldy.

  For the moment, though, his priority was on soaking tired muscles in water magically heated to his perfect temperature, and scrubbing his way to a cleaner, better smelling self.

  In this case, he would come out smelling like cherry blossoms, which made Aefric chuckle.

  The cherry blossom scent was Byrhta’s favorite for him. That the servants had chosen it was likely intended as a subtle reminder of her, which meant that they were worried he might get serious about Zoleen.

  Everyone had an opinion.

  His body servants picked out Aefric’s evening wear, led by Vafar, an elderly kindaren man whose straw-colored hair seemed to resist all efforts at brushing.

  Vafar selected for Aefric a quilted silk tunic of deep sunset red, slashed with a wide cloth-of-gold belt, over navy blue hose. Soft leather shoes with turned down cuffs that had been dyed to match the shirt.

  As a nod to Zoleen’s family — since he would see her at dinner — Aefric wore the sapphire-studded gold brooch that Ashling had given him.

  As he came out of his closets, Ocheda was waiting. She arched an eyebrow as she looked him over. Even her nod of approval looked severe.

  “Your grace’s seneschal and castellan await him in his meeting room,” Ocheda said. “Along with … Ser Deirdre.”

  Ocheda’s distaste for Ser Deirdre dripped from her words like tar.

  “You don’t care for Ser Deirdre, I take it?”

  “Her manner is unseemly, your grace. Smirking and preening. Kneeling to a duke as though your grace were a king.”

  “She is … unconventional,” Aefric allowed, “compared with many knights. But her skills are indisputable, as are her results. Besides,” he added with a smile. “She’s a dweomerblade, and that art only draws the eccentric. I should know.”

  “Your grace has worked hard to present and comport himself as a proper noble following his … adventurous upbringing,” Ocheda said. “It is my opinion that Ser Deirdre’s company could … have a deleterious effect on your grace’s hard work.”

  “I shall keep that in mind,” Aefric said with a laugh. “Reminds me, though. Did she kneel to Duchess Arinda that way?”

  “No, your grace,” Ocheda said, her expression sour. “To the best of my knowledge she did not.”

  Something more to think about, as Aefric went to see what his knights and seneschal had learned.

  When Aefric entered his meeting room, his seneschal, castellan and knight were bent over a map that had been spread out across the round, blackwood table. Though they quickly came to attention and bowed their greetings.

  Well, two of them bowed. Ser Deirdre dropped to one knee, and might have stayed there if Aefric hadn’t immediately gestured for her to rise.

  “I like the darker colors better on your grace,” Ser Deirdre said then, as she looked Aefric over with a critical eye. “The dark blues and blacks. Especially with silver embroidery. Lends an air of mystery. Though the sapphires in the brooch do bring out your grace’s eyes.”

  Kentigern frowned and Ser Calder rolled his eyes, but Aefric couldn’t help chuckling.

  “Are you suggesting, Ser Deirdre, that you could do a better job as my chief body servant?”

  “Body servant, your grace?” Ser Deirdre said with a smile. “I might blush.”

  “I doubt that sincerely,” Aefric said, approaching to look down at the map.

  It covered the northwestern quadrant of Deepwater, from the lake to the sea in the west, and to the Dragonscar in the north.

  “What have we learned?” Aefric asked, then quickly added to Ser Deirdre, “And I don’t mean about fashion.”

  “Morgard seems quite puzzled about his being brought here,” Kentigern said. “Seems to have no idea about why your grace would want to see him.”

  “He does know he stands to inherit his family’s lands?” Aefric asked.

  “We didn’t ask that, specifically,” Ser Calder said. “Didn’t want to tip it, just in case your grace decides against confirming him.” He shook his head. “I confess though. I did expect him to ask.”

  “Yes,” Kentigern agreed. “Especially since we know he works closely with Brangford Couglas, and Brangford had been in touch with his father around the time that your grace was in Lachedran. It would stand to reason that Mayor Brangton would have told his son to expect Morgard’s recall to Water’s End.”

  “So if the mayor told his son,” Aefric said. “The son didn’t tell Morgard. Which begs the question, why?”

  “We’d have to ask Brangford Couglas that,” Ser Calder said.

  “Shall I retrieve him, your grace?” Ser Deirdre asked.

  “Not at this time,” Aefric said.

  “For whatever it’s worth,” Ser Deirdre said, “I don’t think this Morgard thinks of himself as a ler at all. Doesn’t carry the dagger. Doesn’t comport himself as a noble. Acts like a merchant, if you ask me. And a low one at that.”

  “In what way, low?” Aefric asked.

  “The company he keeps. Wasn’t a high-end warehouse I found him in. The goods were cheap. The deal, sketchy. Nothing respectable about it.”

  “But he did speak as though this were unusual. An opportunity that fell into his lap,” Kentigern said. “That a request for cargo came along just hours after he’d learned about another merchant who’d found himself stuck with an excess of cheap textiles. A quick deal for a sure profit.”

  “And none of that seemed suspect to him?” Aefric asked.

  “Deals do happen that way sometimes,” Ser Calder said. “Not as though merchants all wave their business in front of everyone. Instead, you happen to overhear one conversation in a tavern, that connects with the laments you heard from another merchant only hours earlier.”

  “They do say that merchants do more business in taverns and inns than their offices,” Kentigern added.

  “Still,” Aefric said. “Why didn’t he just introduce the two merchants and take a finder’s fee? Why put himself in the middle?”

  “Higher profit,” Ser Calder said. “He does the one a ‘favor’ by taking the excess off his hands cheap, then does the other a ‘favor’ by helping her fill her hold with the cargo she needs. She has to pay a little more, but meets her deadline. Decent profit margin for Morgard, at the cost of only a few hours’ work.”

  “So you’re saying it sounds legitimate,” Aefric said to Kentigern and Ser Calder. He turned to Ser Deirdre. “But you’re saying the deal was sketchy.”

  “I’m saying the look and feel of it was sketchy,” Ser Deirdre said. “That doesn’t always mean the deal is too, but it’s the way to bet.”

  “So the questioning turned up no answers?” Aefric asked.

  “Please excuse us, your grace,” Ser Calder said. “We’re presenting out of order.”

  “Not my fault,” Ser Deirdre said, answering Ser Calder’s pointed look with a blasé expression.

  “I’m not looking to blame anyone,” Aefric said. “I just want to know what you learned from Morgard.”

  “All right,” Ser Calder said. “Kentigern, would you care to start?”

  “Thank you,” Kentigern said, then pointed to the map, indicating a series of farms around Lachedran. “According to Morgard, the flax and cotton were grown and harvested here, then a local trading company in Lachedran — Riverborne — had arranged for them to be shipped to another company down in Merrek.”

  “Via Ajenmoor?” Aefric asked.

  “The sea route is faster this time of year,” Ser Calder said. “When the storms aren’t as big a problem. Wintertime, they’d ship down the Haven to the Tainfyr, and go from there.”

  “According to Morgard, the Merrek company’s ship left Ajenmoor almost an aett ahead of schedule, two days before Riverborne’s cargo even arrived. Which meant that cargo sat eating storage fees for several days, while Riverborne tried to find a buyer who wouldn’t pay them coppers on the silver.”

  “Morgard had heard about the cargo,” Ser Calder said. “And according to him, Brangford Couglas had heard about a captain whose shipment of pipe weed had never shown up, and needed something to sell down in Wulfport. Between them, they made the arrangements, cutting themselves in for a profit.”

  “A missing shipment of ‘pipe weed,’” Aefric said suspiciously.

  “That’s what Morgard said,” Ser Calder said, “and we have no knowledge to contradict it.”