It was dreary all morning, and Lerran sipped the remnants of his coffee from a large mug at his desk as it pattered against his glass windows. Tass had kept him company for a while, but had been called away to oversee some workers that were repairing the grounds. While Aunt Mara had handled a lot of the estate management under Gharo’s leadership, Lerran had delegated a lot of that to his wife as she eagerly embraced her role as wife of the Prince of Sheld. Old Mara didn’t mind—she spent her days reading in her small library room and reviewing some of the lengthier documents that came to Lerran’s attention.
The gloomy atmosphere was not exclusively the low hanging clouds or the humid fog blanketing the lower half of the city below his window. Even now, Isar was performing an inventory of the armoury and Antha was delivering condolence letters for the loss of life caused by the attack which had stolen Paksis from his employ.
Gadra knocked on the door and stuck his head in the door. “Come in,” Lerran drawled. He stood up and crossed to the rainy window.
“I’m going to get something to eat,” she said. She had been helping Eseveer with some calculations of pay changes. Seven guards had died, and one was still in intense medical care.
“I’ll come. I need a drink,” Lerran muttered.
Gadra held out a pair of sandals in one hand and a small dagger. “We found these in her inn room.”
Lerran set them on his desk. The dagger had initials carved in the handle: A.B. He sighed. He had paid a few City Watch guards for information, but no one surviving had any useful knowledge of where the attacker had taken Paksis. Out of Sheld in a small sailboat. It was not a lot to go on.
At lunch, his sister and he shared a small loaf of bread and a vegetable stew. Lerran demanded meat and was presented with left over steak from the previous evening. It didn’t quite hit the spot, but the rum did. Yarua soon joined her two siblings and she eagerly joined Lerran in his heavy drinking. He drank three mugs—too much for one small meal.