At the harbour opposite a dozen ships were unloading their cargoes, while anchored further out on the bay were twenty more, waiting for the signal to dock. Twenty-eight of the ships flew under the flag of the Tree. His ships.
It seemed incredible to Waylander that a man, like himself, without a great understanding of the subtleties of commerce should have become so ridiculously wealthy. No matter how much he spent now – or, indeed, gave away – more gold flowed in. Matze Chai, and other merchants, had invested Waylander’s money well. But even his own ventures had paid handsomely. It is all a grand nonsense, he thought, as he floated in the water. He had lost track of the number of ships he now owned. Somewhere above three hundred. Then there were the mines – emerald, diamond, ruby, gold and silver – scattered from the hinterlands of Ventria to the eastern Vagrian mountains.
He swung in the water and gazed up at the white marble palace. He had commissioned it six years ago following an idle conversation with a young architect who had talked passionately about the overwhelming and delightful problems of construction, and of his dream to create a marvel. ‘Why should we always seek out flat ground?’ asked the young man. ‘Where is the wonder in that? Great buildings should make an observer gasp.’
Three years in construction, the White Palace was indeed a wonder, though the young architect had not lived to see it finished. A nobleman from House Kilraith, he had been stabbed to death one night by assassins from a rival House. Such was life among the nobles of Kydor.
Waylander swam for the beach and emerged on to the white sand. His steward Omri left his seat beneath the olive tree and walked out to meet him, a long linen towel folded over his arm. ‘Was the swim beneficial, sir?’ he asked, extending the towel and draping it over Waylander’s shoulders.
‘It was refreshing,’ said Waylander. ‘And now I am ready for the pressing matters of the day.’
The Lady requests an audience with you, sir,’ said Omri, ‘when you have the time.’
Waylander looked at the older man closely. ‘Is something bothering you, Omri?’
‘Were you aware she is a mystic?’
‘No, but it is not surprising. I have known many priests with Talent.’
‘I find it unsettling,’ admitted Omri. ‘I rather feel she can read my thoughts.’
‘Are your thoughts so terrible?’ asked Waylander, with a smile.
‘Occasionally, sir,’ admitted Omri, straight-faced. ‘But that is not the point. They are my thoughts.’
‘Indeed so. What else requires my attention?’
‘We have received a message from Lord Aric saying he will visit in ten days on his way to the Winter Palace.’
‘He needs more money,’ said Waylander.
‘I fear so, sir.’
Dry now, Waylander moved into the shade of the olive tree and pulled on a black silk shirt and a pair of soft leather leggings. Tugging on his boots, he sat back and gazed once more over the bay. ‘Did the Lady say why she wished to see me?’
‘No, sir. But she did tell me of your fight with the raiders.’
Waylander caught the note of criticism in the old man’s voice. ‘It is too fine a day to be chided, Omri,’ he said.
‘You take great risks, sir. Largely unnecessary risks. We have thirty guards here, and a dozen tough foresters. They could have been sent after the robbers.’
‘Very true. But I was close by.’
‘And you were bored,’ said the old man. ‘You always ride off into the wilderness when you are bored. I have come to the conclusion that you do not enjoy being rich. It is, I must say, hard to understand.’
‘It is a terrible thing, boredom,’ said Waylander. ‘It has come to me over the years that wealth and tedium are great bedfellows. When one is rich there is nothing to strive for. Every pleasure I desire is available to me.’
‘Obviously not every one, sir, otherwise you would not be bored.’
Waylander laughed. ‘That is true. Now, enough of this soul-searching, my friend. What other news is there?’
‘Two retainers from House Bakard were murdered in Carlis two days ago, supposedly by men hired by House Kilraith. There is great tension in the town. The merchant Vanis has requested an increase to his loan. He claims to have lost two ships in a storm and is unable to meet his debt payments. Also . . .’ Omri pulled a slip of parchment from the pocket of his grey robe and perused it’. . . the surgeon Mendyr Syn has asked if you would be prepared to hire three extra students, at a cost of six silvers a month, to assist him. There are now no spare beds in the infirmary and Mendyr has been working for fifteen hours a day trying to aid the sick.’ Omri folded the parchment, returning it to his pocket. ‘Oh, yes, and. . .er. . . Lady Lalitia has invited you to attend a celebration of her birthday in three days.’