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health.”
    The pair moved, as one, to open the gate, the younger even tensing his arm in an abortive salute as Cerris marched past. The guards already forgotten—or at least dismissed as unimportant (he’d never
forget
a potential enemy at his back)—Cerris made his way up the familiar pathway. Around a few small fountains of marble and brass, and through gardens of carefully tended flowers, all of which were actually rather understated where the nobility were concerned, he followed until it culminated at the Lady Irrial’s front door …

    Cerris paused a moment to scrape the muddy snow from his boots on the stoop, then entered the Lady Irrial’s parlor, all beneath the unyielding and disapproving gaze of a butler who probably only owned that one expression—perhaps borrowing others from his employer when the rare occasion required it.
“And is my lady expecting you?” the manservant demanded inprecisely the same tone he might have used to ask
And is there a reason you have just piddled on a priceless carpet
?
For several moments, Cerris couldn’t be bothered to answer, instead gazing around to take in the abode of one of his new noble “customers.” Where previous houses had practically glowed with polished gold and gleaming silver, brilliantly hued tapestries and gaudy portraits, it appeared that the Baroness Irrial might have more restrained tastes. The chandelier was brass and crystal, but its design was more functional than decorative. A large mirror, framed in brass, stood by the door so that guests might comport themselves for their visit, and a single portrait—the first Duke of Rahariem, grandfather to the current regent and great-uncle to Irrial herself—dominated the far wall above a modest fireplace.
Finally, the butler having stewed long enough that he was probably about ready to be served as an appetizer, Cerris replied, “No, I don’t believe so.”
“I see. And do I recall correctly that you gave your name as ‘Cerris’?”
“I hope you do, since that actually is what I said.”
The butler’s non-expression grew even more
non
. “Have you any idea at all, Master Cerris, how many people show up here on a daily basis, expecting to meet with the baroness without an appointment?”
“No, but I’d lay odds you’re about to tell me.”
“None, Master Cerris. Because
most
folk are polite enough, and have sufficient sense of their place, not to arrive unannounced.” His lips twitched, and Cerris was certain that he’d have been grinning arrogantly if he’d not long since forgotten how.
“Well, I’m terribly sorry to have upset your notion of the rightness of things. Now please tell my lady that Cerris is here to see her regarding the family’s trade arrangements.”
“Now, see here—”
“Go. Tell. Her.”
“I shall have you thrown out at once!”
“You could do that,” Cerris said calmly. “Of course, then you’ll have to explain to Lady Irrial why she’s the only noble in the city who suddenly can’t afford textiles from Mecepheum, or imported fruits, or a thousand other things.”
“I … You …”
“Run along now.” He refrained from reaching out to pat the old man’s cheek—but only just. Cerris was actually rather surprised that the butler didn’t leak a trail of steam from his ears as he turned and stalked, back rigid, up the burgundy-carpeted stairs.
Only a few moments had gone to their graves before footsteps sounded again on those steps, but the descending figure, clad in a luxurious gown of emerald green girdled in gold, was most assuredly
not
the butler. She looked a decade younger than her years, apparently having faced middle age head-on as it drew near, and beaten it into a submissive pulp with a heavy stick. Her auburn hair, though coiled atop her head, was not so tightly wound as the current style, and her face boasted a veritable constellation of freckles. Most aristocrats would assuredly have tried to hide them with sundry creams and powders, but