The steward Lestres was meeting with Norsarion in his study. As he scribbled diligently away on the documents before him, he sent his master a tentative glance. As usual, the Dell's mind seemed to be wandering. Ever since the boy had returned from the Academy, from whence he had been expelled in disgrace for sabotaging and losing government property – then in aiding and abetting a murder - he had never seemed to be entirely there.
Lestres frowned. The boy stayed on top of his responsibilities, it was true, but if it were not for the steward he should have had a far more difficult time in doing so. "My lord?"
Norsarion turned his attention back to Lestres quickly, though without enthusiasm. "Yes?"
"The Lady's birthday is in less than a week, is it not?"
"Aye." The Dell looked slightly irritated at the mention of his wife, eliciting a raised eyebrow from the steward.
"Do you not intend – " Lestres cut himself off, opting to change his wording. 'Do you not intend to host some sort of special event in her honor?' came across as more accusatory than a retainer had the right with which to address his lord. "Are there no plans for the holding of some sort of special event in her honor? A ball, perhaps, or—"
"I have already asked her what she would like to do for her birthday this year," Norsarion interrupted curtly. "She has made it clear that she would prefer not to have any sort of celebration."
'Because she knows that you are averse to such things.' Lestres felt unduly aggravated. "But, my lord Dell, surely—"
"She has asked me to have a quiet dinner with her in her chambers," Norsarion continued, as if the steward had not spoken at all. "That is what we are planning to do. It will be an entirely private affair."
"I see." Lestres lowered his eyelids in a pretense of humility and resumed his attentions to the documents before him. "Pardon my presumptuousness, then, my lord."
Norsarion merely snorted in response. There was really no love lost at all between the Dell and his retainer. Lestres thought that his master was a young fool, while Norsarion simply cared nothing for his steward. Or for people in general, it seemed. Lestres could remember the days when, during his apprenticeship to the steward who had served the Dofreth house before him, he had watched Norsarion grow up from infanthood onwards. The Dell had been a spoiled child then and, so far as Lestres was concerned, he was a spoiled youth even now. Norsarion was, in his opinion, merely a poor imitation of his father and his older brothers before him, Norsaroth and Norsariel.
And yet Norsarion, that spoiled child, was the one who had become the Dell of Dofreth. How ironic. How regrettable. Some people got so many things that they were not deserving of. Lestres would have sighed, if it would have not been unseemly to do so right there in front of his lord.
Norsarion, for his part, was dutifully reading over the missive sent to him by the Dell of a neighboring territory. Something about the peasants' crops not growing properly due to the recent drought, and would the good Dell of Dofreth be so kind as to lend his expertise on the matter, since he was a master in the art of runology? The aforesaid Dell of Dofreth let out a sigh of distaste. It was not characteristic of any Xureyan dell, northern or southern, to toady up to anyone else in the manner, not even if it were another Dell. They only did it to him because he was known to have some skill in runic swordsmanship – which, as most people seemed to be unaware of here in the North, was a different matter entirely from runic agriculture.
Norsarion tossed the letter before him and ran a hand through his thick curly hair, thinking with annoyance about how presently he would have to write a polite letter of rejection in response, explaining that he was a runic swordsman, not a runic agriculturist – not the he expected the other Dell to grasp the implications of that. Norsarion would probably end up offending the fool no matter what he wrote. Briefly he toyed with the idea of simply sending a sheet of parchment with nothing inscribed upon it save a large, bold, "SLIDE OFF", but dismissed the notion as rapidly as it came. His steward read over everything before he sent it off anyway; the man probably dandied up his words to no end before deeming them fit to be sent off to their destinations.
If he had been – someone else – he might have been able to help out with agricultural problems. Norsarion had never studied anything about plants during his time at the Academy. But he knew someone who had. He bit his lip in an unconscious gesture of pensiveness.
"My lord Dell?"
Norsarion was snapped out of his reverie by the tight, clipped voice of his steward. "What, Lestres."
"Any news from the Cefron region?"
"Not really – well." Norsarion leaned back, rubbing one palm across the strong line of his own jaw. "Apparently the peasants' crops are suffering down there. They have been hit hard by the drought."
"I see. What did the Dell say?"
"He asked me if I would travel over there and see what I could do about it."
"And will you?" Norsarion gave the steward a look. "No, no, I know, you are a runic swordsman, not – whatever sort of specialist you would have to be to lend Cefron your assistance." Norsarion wondered idly if the man was trying to be snide. "But are you certain you can be of no assistance whatsoever, my lord?"
"How do you mean?"
"Well, it would certainly be a boon to help the Dell Cefron out in some way even if you are unable to provide him with your aid directly—"
"Get to the point, Lestres."
The steward held on to his patience in a most admirable way. "Have you no acquaintances from your time in the Academy whom you could forward the Dell Cefron's request to? Someone who did in fact specialize in an area that could be of use in that region's plight?"
'Definitely trying to be snide.' Out loud, Norsarion replied flatly, "No."
Lestres raised an eyebrow, an expression plastered all over his sallow face that clearly said that he did not find this revelation surprising. His "Oh?" was very eloquent indeed.
Norsarion shrugged. He saw no need to justify his lack of acquaintances to some snotty retainer. Possibly he was being a brat, but he did not feel inclined to waste the time or energy hemming and hawing his way around excuses as to why he had been devoid of runic agriculture-savvy friends in his Academy days. There had been that other person, yes, but Lestres had no need of knowing about any of that. It was none of his business, or anyone else's, for that matter.
As if he were reading his lord's mind, Lestres remarked next: "Were you not – friends with a Wistan student while you were in the Academy?"
Norsarion's eyes, which were normally like dormant pieces of coal, flashed dangerously. Other than that, however, his expression remained flat and static. "What of it?" he inquired in a low voice.
There was a challenge in those dark eyes, something simultaneously icy and smoldering somehow. Lestres almost shivered to behold it. He knew the boy well enough by now to be familiar with the fact that Norsarion was not at his most dangerous when he was scowling, snapping, or even shouting (which was rare these days in any case). When he grew still and intense like this – ah, then he was someone to be reckoned with.
The steward, however, had the advantage at the moment, and they were both aware of it. This was a confrontation of Norsarion's disgrace, his shaming of his family's name and honor, and the steward knew that this was like the lashing out of a wounded animal that had been driven into a corner. He almost smiled at the thought of it.
Gracefully he decided to back down, leaving his master in peace for the time being. "My lord, it simply occurred to me that Wistans might be more well-versed in matters of horticulture than simple Xureyans like ourselves might be. I only wondered—" He purposefully cut himself off there under a pretense of tact.
Norsarion was silent. Of course the steward knew what had happened – he would have had to have been a fool to not have at least guessed as to what Norsarion had actually done, why he had been expelled from the Academy. Lestres definitely had the higher ground. Norsarion clenched one of his fists together and was glad that it was under the table so that it could not be seen.
"Well," Lestres was going on blithely, as if nothing had happened. "It is most unfortunate, but I suppose, that nothing can be done for the region of Cefron, then. A pity."
Norsarion glanced out the window. Judging from the position of the sun and the time of year, it had to be around fourteenth hour by now. "I suppose so," he replied quietly. He would compile and send off a list of names of some people he knew to have taken studies in agricultural runic arts later on to the Cefron Dell tomorrow, he decided. Not that the steward needed to know that; the matter could be taken care of in private. He rose, lifting up a sheaf of papers to take with him into his sitting chamber.
Lestres followed his example, rising a half-second after he saw his lord's motion to rise. "Shall you be retiring for the evening then, my lord Dell?" he inquired. Inwardly he reflected upon how the boy had not even the decency to at least announce that he was being dismissed for the day. Norsarion casted a perfunctory nod over one broad shoulder before striding out of the door. "Really, my lord," Lestres remarked as he followed. The Dell was, of all things, holding the door open for him as he passed through the doorway and looking irritated as he did so. "Given my station below you, it is unnecessary for you to condescend to hold a door open for this most humble servant of yours." He bowed his head in a show of subservience and Norsarion slammed the door shut. "Though of course I am much obliged to you for the favor."
Something that was almost a sneer flickered across Norsarion's face for a moment. "You don't honestly think I trust you in my study all by yourself."
Lestres' eyebrows went up. "Why, my lord, you wound me."
"I doubt that."
For a tense instant they locked eyes. The steward was the one who looked away first – not because he was intimidated, but because he already carried with him an edge of triumph from their exchange that day. He bowed gracefully. "May you find your night's respite pleasant, my lord Dell," he purred.
Without dignifying Lestres' well-wishes with a response, Norsarion slammed the door behind him and stalked off towards his sitting chambers, the sheaf of papers under his arm.
Lestres shook his head and chuckled quietly once his lord was out of hearing.