“Hello, Noble Izamel. You probably know why you are here. Melarshain, I have come as asked. Tell me why.”
Izamel, a quite old man around whose skull remained only a halo of white hair, chuckled. “I have been told considerable about you, but I had not realized how direct you would be, Spellmaster.”
“I am in the company of wealthy men who can afford an afternoon off. I am a working man who can ill afford the luxury.”
“You are hardly a poor man, sir.”
“I did not say that I was poor. Noble. Since it is you who speaks and not my moneyholder Melarshain who invited me, I repeat to you: I have come as asked.
Tell me why.”
Melarshain glanced at Renn, but it was Shafralain who made an impatient gesture and rose. He paced as he spoke.
“We are men who love Sanctuary. We believe that you do. We have heard that you consider leaving.”
Strick’s face was open, his eyes large. He said nothing. He had started the rumor.
“You have done good in Sanctuary; for Sanctuary,” Shafralain resumed, when it became obvious that Strick would not comment. “For four of us here directly, but what is more important, for the city. For the people. For us of Ilsig, for Ran kans-even the Beys. We wish you to remain, Strick.”
“I am moving into the city from my villa, sir,” Izamel said. “The villa is for sale. We wish you to purchase it.”
“You… flatter and please me,” Strick said, even more quietly than usual.
“Too, I appreciate bluntness. Noble Izamel. Yet while I have prospered here, I am sure I cannot afford your villa.”
At last Melarshain got himself together. “Strick, what you see here is a new cartel. We have discussed. The five of us love Sanctuary and welcome another who has only her good in mind. We propose to loan you the money to purchase the villa of Noble Izamel, at no interest, and to sell you as well an interest in the glass manufactory two of us own. You may specify the terms.”