It also wasn’t uncommon for him to be called a lord, for his bearing and composure, his self-confidence and commanding presence, were those of a nobleman. He would have none of it. He was proud of his simple roots, proud of the hard work that had attained the success he now enjoyed. He scorned royalty on the most part, and he was heard to mutter, more than once, that royals didn’t have the sense of a horse’s ass.

A gold ring flashed on Stevic’s finger as he entered the dim administration building. It bore the clan emblem, the twin of the one his beloved Kariny had once worn. Upon her death it had been passed on to Karigan. Whenever he looked at his daughter, he saw Kariny. Her high forehead and bright eyes . . . Karigan had not inherited her quiet ways, however, but her father’s own temper.

Stevic’s footfalls echoed loudly in the lobby. It was a domed rotunda with a veined marble floor. Bronze statues and busts of past administrators, stern and staid scholars, and severe looking craft masters, frowned at him from their alcoves. Offices branched off in either direction in rows of oak doors.

A bald-pated clerk sat at a desk, crouched over a sheaf of papers. Stevic stood before him some moments before the clerk acknowledged his presence with a sniff and nasal, “Yes?”

“I’m here to see Dean Geyer.”

“Dean Geyer is in a meeting.” The man stuck his nose back into his papers and proceeded to ignore Stevic.

Bureaucrats, Stevic knew, could be worse than aristocrats. As a merchant, he had dealt with his share of tax collectors and trade officials. “I will see the dean now.”

“Have you an appointment?”

“Of sorts.”

“There are no appointments scheduled on the roster at this time.” The clerk didn’t even glance at the appointment book on his desk.

“I received a letter from Dean Geyer instructing me to visit when I arrived.”

“Do you have it with you?”

Stevic frowned. “I—it was destroyed.”

“I see.” Though Stevic towered above, the clerk still managed to look down his nose at him. “Dean Geyer is busy. Either you have an appointment or you do not.”

Stevic wondered if the clerk gave the royals the same run-around, or if they received special treatment. He placed his hands on the clerk’s neat desk and leaned down so he could look the man in the eye. “You will create an appointment for me now, or by Breyan’s gold, I’ll inform the dean that his clerk is reading poetry rather than attending to his duty.”

The clerk licked his lips and gulped nervously. “Very well, but the dean will be annoyed.”

“I pay this school handsomely so my daughter can attend. I expect some of that tuition goes toward your salary, and that of the dean. I do not think it unreasonable that the dean see me. Now.”

“Of course, my lord.”

So, the clerk did treat royals the same way. Perhaps he wasn’t so bad after all. “I am no lord. I am Stevic G’ladheon, chieftain of Clan G’ladheon. At your service.” He put his hand to his heart and bowed slightly, as was customary.

The clerk sniffed as he took in the fine clothing. “Oh. A merchant, I suppose. Very well. Follow me.” He hoisted his robes of office and strode across the lobby, his sandals whispering on the marble floor.

They mounted two sets of spiraling stairs carpeted with rich red pile, and zigzagged through numerous branching corridors before halting before enormous double doors of oak. The clerk hesitated and glanced over his shoulder at Stevic. Noting the merchant’s expression of resolve, he licked his lips and knocked.

“Who is it?” barked a voice from within.

“Dean Geyer, I—”

“Oh, Matterly. Come in.”

The clerk shrugged and pushed the doors open. Dean Geyer, a distinguished looking man with snowy hair and bright blue eyes, sat at his vast desk, just about to insert a mast into the upper deck of a large model ship.

“I see how busy he is,” Stevic whispered to the clerk. Matterly reddened.

The dean cleared his throat when he noticed Stevic, and pushed the model aside. He stared at the clerk, awaiting an explanation.

“Chief Stevic G’ladheon to see you, Dean,” Matterly said. He backed out of the office without another word, pulling the doors shut as he went.

Stevic ignored the impressive collection of books on the dean’s shelves, and the rare hand-drawn maps framed on the wall that would have ordinarily intrigued him. He stepped right up to the desk and focused his attention on the ship model, examining it carefully. “I’ve sailed a few of these square riggers myself,” he said.

“I, uh ...” Geyer ran his fingers through his white hair and chuckled nervously, like a child caught with his finger dipped in the honey pot. “I tried sailing once or twice, but uh . . . the sea sickness, you know.”

Stevic scrunched his brows together. “You’ve glued the bowsprit to the stern.” He clucked in dismay. “And see here—” he pointed to the rear of the model, “—you’ve put the jib where the spanker belongs.”

He stood straight, feet spread and hands on hips, and turned his attention on the dean. He surveyed the dean as critically as he had the model, as if something was out of place. Geyer swallowed and twisted a length of twine around his little finger. He tried to speak, but under Stevic’s stern appraisal, no words came out.

“I beg your pardon for this intrusion, Dean,” Stevic said finally, “but your letter demanded immediate attention. I haven’t even been to see my daughter yet.”