“Tell me about the clan,” Mirwell said, intrigued by how Beryl’s scarlet uniform deepened her rosy, healthy cheeks.

“It’s based in Corsa. No surprise there. Corsa is home to many merchant clans due to its outstanding deep water harbors. G’ladheon invests heavily in shipping, but is not a dominant holder in any single ship.”

“Wise of him. The more diverse his holdings, the less risk to his fortune. He does have a fortune, doesn’t he?”

Beryl looked up at him with those pale green eyes of hers, glistening like the gems that were her namesake. “Stevic G’ladheon is perhaps the single wealthiest person in all the provinces. Last year’s Merchant Guild’s Year End Reckoning had him the highest grossing member.”

“Therefore, not a man to anger if his wealth is any indication of his influence. What does he deal in?”

Beryl scanned her papers. “Textiles and spices mainly. Some lumber and paper. Much of his trading is done inland via river cog and wagon train. He has strong ties with Rhovanny, and has even traded ice in the Cloud Islands. Very clever of him to find such a market in the tropics. According to some of your relations, my lord, he doesn’t venture often into Mirwell Province.”

“No wonder I’ve heard little of him. Do any of my relations consider him a threat?”

“No, my lord. Though, just in case, they traced some of his personal history. He is the clan founder—Clan G’ladheon has existed for some twenty years.”

Mirwell snorted. “A bought clanship, I’ve no doubt.”

“G’ladheon worked hard for it, starting with small merchant families to learn the trade. He’s intelligent to have accumulated such wealth over so short a time.” Was that admiration in Beryl’s voice? “Here’s an interesting bit of information. About thirty-five years ago, he served on the merchant vessel Gold Hunter, which used tactics of questionable legality during peacetime to acquire goods for trade.”

“Explain.”

“The crew practiced piracy, my lord. Mostly around the Under Kingdoms. They wreaked havoc with the sugar and tobacco trades.”

Mirwell raised his brows.“More interesting by the moment. Any idea of what capacity he served as on this vessel?”

“No, my lord.”

“What became of the ship?”

“It was sold and reregistered as SMV Avren’s Pride, and became something of a coastal scow transporting granite and lumber. It was lost somewhere in outer Ullem Bay fifteen years ago.”

“I see no immediate threat from this G’ladheon fellow.” Mirwell sipped his wine. It was just the right amount of dry balanced with sweet. It did not rival the fine vintages produced in the lake country of Rhovanny, but in a pinch it would do. Vintners couldn’t seem to grow grapes in Sacoridia’s sandy soil, so cider and fruit wines served as staples. Unless Rhovan was to be had, of course.

“Good work, Spence. Keep the information on hand just in case he turns into an overwrought father. Should he cause us trouble, I’m sure our good friend aus-Corien of the Under Kingdoms would be interested in hearing about him. And we may have our own uses for the information.”

“Yes, my lord. Anything else?”

Mirwell rubbed a sweaty hand on his thigh. He could think of countless “things” she could do for him. He felt a certain thrill at the idea of what she could do for him tingle all the way down to his loins. Would voicing his desire wreck her fealty and efficiency? Or, would it bind her closer to him?

Phaw, randy old man, he thought, not displeased by the response of his libido. But she was too effective as his aide and he feared ruining her devotion. Should she make the first advance herself, however. . . .

She never would. He was a grizzled old man and she was more intent on making a place for herself in his court hierarchy with pure hard work. She had moved swiftly up the ranks during her term in Sacoridia’s regular militia, and had given it all up to serve her governor and home province. The chance she had taken paid off, and here she was working her way up in his own provincial militia. Ambition was a trait Mirwell admired, and honest ambition rare enough.

Ah, well. At least I can enjoy my dirty thoughts.

“My lord?”

“Eh?”

“Anything else?”

Now she must think him a dotty old fool leering at her like that. “Send in Amilton,” he said, then amended, “Prince Amilton.”

“Very well, my lord.”

Mirwell watched after her with longing and regret, and observed how her every movement was graceful, yet held a stillness like a deer in the woods: alert but calm, and not prone to excessive motion. She reminded him of the Weapons, but their movements were always precise and lacking beauty.

Ah, if he were a younger man, then maybe, but now he must set aside his thoughtful maunderings and get on with his great work. The glory of his clan was more important than anything else, and Amilton had been insistent about seeing him today. Mirwell had put him off all morning, and most of the afternoon. By now, the prince would be angry enough to spit venom.

“There are ways,” the governor told the bear head mounted on the opposite wall, “of showing who is in control. Subtle ways, mind you.”

The bear had once exerted her control on him in a none-too-subtle way. It was she who had maimed his right side. He had been careless during the hunt, had gotten between the mother and the cubs. The bear mauled him, and it was perhaps his injuries which had prevented him from siring another son, though he was always certain to blame his wives. He could not be perceived as weak in any of his ventures. Too bad the wife who bore Timas had been so short and mean. The boy had acquired her temperament and size.