Read Online The Black Star (Book 3) by Edward W. Robertson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edward W. Robertson
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on the wooden block sitting between them.
To occupy his hand, Blays reached for a cup of beer instead. "I'm afraid I don't understand, milord. Didn't you just agree this was a wonderful opportunity?"
Dilliger nodded, a hint of pain to his smile. "I did, and it is. It's simply the wrong time."
"Wrong time?"
The duke raised an eyebrow, as if Blays were committing an error by asking a single question. Which he probably was. The rulebook for discussing money with blue bloods was thicker than the Cycle of Arawn .
"I'm sure I'll kick myself for missing this," the duke said. "But if capital is currency, most of mine is ice. It froze just after I accepted your visit. I'd hoped it would melt before we met—but alas."
Blays quirked his head, then nodded once. "I see. I hope that if a sudden wind thaws it, or you locate a new wellspring, you won't hesitate to contact me."
"Should I? Then you won't seek other offers on the goods that have cost you a fortune or three?"
"Sure, and while I'm at it I'll quit breathing, too." Blays forced a laugh. "I'll cut other brush. But cutting trails takes time. If your situation changes before mine, I would love to do business with you. Particularly after your hospitality."
The duke raised a glass. "Flexibility is the mother of success."
Blays lifted his beer and drank. Even though he was dying to leave then and there—not just to get started on seeking a deal with someone else, but because Dilliger's abrupt reversal made him suspicious his cover had been blown—protocol insisted he stay the night. Leaving right after dinner would signal Blays/Pendelles was only there for the duke's money. Which Dilliger surely understood. His staff, however, was another matter. Gossip was just about the only way servants had to express any power in the world. If Blays were to ride off in the night like a bandit, the manor's boys and maids would light up Setteven with talk of his crass avarice. The disaster he'd currently been flung into would be compounded many times over when word of his character caused the lords and ladies of the court to snub him out of hand.
And so he was forced to endure another delicious feast and round after round of drinks. He swallowed his bile as well. The dinner was excellent, though he quickly forgot it. For his part, the duke seemed mildly regretful at having invited Blays out here knowing there was little chance anything would come of it. They drank fine wine on a balcony and spoke for hours about the courts, business, personal philosophy, and all the other subjects privileged men were supposed to enjoy.
At last, Blays retired. He got up mid-morning, made his goodbyes with the duke, and headed out in his carriage. Autumn light drenched the grounds. The carriage wheels rattled along the ruts of the road. As Lord Pendelles, he preferred to keep his retinue light—a cost-saving/efficiency matter, when anyone asked—and so he traveled in the company of no more than a driver and a porter. Both were trustworthy, long-time employees of Lolligan, but Blays didn't speak a word about the trip.
They rolled into the capital of Setteven as the light rolled away from the land. Gray towers fought for control of the city's hills, conical roofs painted pink by the sunset. The thick band of the river split Setteven in two. Entire stretches were so thoroughly bridged, docked, and reclaimed that the water wasn't visible at all. Setteven was among the oldest cities in Gask, and hadn't seen violence inside its walls for centuries, leaving a mixture of classical and modern architecture in its homes, churches, markets, and state buildings. Everyone would agree it was a jewel. And right then, Blays didn't give a shit.
The driver navigated skillfully through the tangled, jostling streets, avoiding both the snarled thoroughfares and the more dangerous back ways. Soon enough, the carriage rocked to a stop outside a four-story corner manor on one of the city's most desirable hills. Blays kicked
To occupy his hand, Blays reached for a cup of beer instead. "I'm afraid I don't understand, milord. Didn't you just agree this was a wonderful opportunity?"
Dilliger nodded, a hint of pain to his smile. "I did, and it is. It's simply the wrong time."
"Wrong time?"
The duke raised an eyebrow, as if Blays were committing an error by asking a single question. Which he probably was. The rulebook for discussing money with blue bloods was thicker than the Cycle of Arawn .
"I'm sure I'll kick myself for missing this," the duke said. "But if capital is currency, most of mine is ice. It froze just after I accepted your visit. I'd hoped it would melt before we met—but alas."
Blays quirked his head, then nodded once. "I see. I hope that if a sudden wind thaws it, or you locate a new wellspring, you won't hesitate to contact me."
"Should I? Then you won't seek other offers on the goods that have cost you a fortune or three?"
"Sure, and while I'm at it I'll quit breathing, too." Blays forced a laugh. "I'll cut other brush. But cutting trails takes time. If your situation changes before mine, I would love to do business with you. Particularly after your hospitality."
The duke raised a glass. "Flexibility is the mother of success."
Blays lifted his beer and drank. Even though he was dying to leave then and there—not just to get started on seeking a deal with someone else, but because Dilliger's abrupt reversal made him suspicious his cover had been blown—protocol insisted he stay the night. Leaving right after dinner would signal Blays/Pendelles was only there for the duke's money. Which Dilliger surely understood. His staff, however, was another matter. Gossip was just about the only way servants had to express any power in the world. If Blays were to ride off in the night like a bandit, the manor's boys and maids would light up Setteven with talk of his crass avarice. The disaster he'd currently been flung into would be compounded many times over when word of his character caused the lords and ladies of the court to snub him out of hand.
And so he was forced to endure another delicious feast and round after round of drinks. He swallowed his bile as well. The dinner was excellent, though he quickly forgot it. For his part, the duke seemed mildly regretful at having invited Blays out here knowing there was little chance anything would come of it. They drank fine wine on a balcony and spoke for hours about the courts, business, personal philosophy, and all the other subjects privileged men were supposed to enjoy.
At last, Blays retired. He got up mid-morning, made his goodbyes with the duke, and headed out in his carriage. Autumn light drenched the grounds. The carriage wheels rattled along the ruts of the road. As Lord Pendelles, he preferred to keep his retinue light—a cost-saving/efficiency matter, when anyone asked—and so he traveled in the company of no more than a driver and a porter. Both were trustworthy, long-time employees of Lolligan, but Blays didn't speak a word about the trip.
They rolled into the capital of Setteven as the light rolled away from the land. Gray towers fought for control of the city's hills, conical roofs painted pink by the sunset. The thick band of the river split Setteven in two. Entire stretches were so thoroughly bridged, docked, and reclaimed that the water wasn't visible at all. Setteven was among the oldest cities in Gask, and hadn't seen violence inside its walls for centuries, leaving a mixture of classical and modern architecture in its homes, churches, markets, and state buildings. Everyone would agree it was a jewel. And right then, Blays didn't give a shit.
The driver navigated skillfully through the tangled, jostling streets, avoiding both the snarled thoroughfares and the more dangerous back ways. Soon enough, the carriage rocked to a stop outside a four-story corner manor on one of the city's most desirable hills. Blays kicked
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