“Trader Restart, you mean?” Ronica corrected her.

Rache bobbed her head in silent acknowledgment. Ronica set her teeth, then gave it up. “I'll see him in the sitting room,” she instructed Rache, and then followed the girl's sullen eyes to where Davad already stood in the door.

As always he was immaculately groomed, and as always everything about his clothes was subtly wrong. His leggings bagged slightly at the knees, and the embroidered doublet he wore was laced just tightly enough that he had spoiled the lines of it: it made his modest belly seem a bulging pot. He had oiled his dark hair into ringlets, but most of the curl had fallen from them so it hung in greasy locks. Even if the curl had stayed, it was a style more suited to a much younger man.

Somewhere Ronica found the aplomb to smile back at him as she set down her pen and shut her account book. She hoped the ink was dry. She started to rise, but Davad motioned her to stay as she was. Another small gesture from him sent Rache scurrying from the room as Davad advanced to Ephron's bedside.

“How is he?” Davad asked, softening his deep voice.

“As you see,” Ronica replied quietly. She set aside her irritation at his calm assumption of welcome in her husband's sickroom. She also put aside her embarrassment that he had caught her at her totting up, with ink on the side of her hand and her brow wrinkled from staring at her own finely penned numbers. Davad meant well, she was sure. How he had managed to grow up in one of Bingtown's old Trader families and still have such a hazy idea of good manners, she would never know. Without invitation, he drew up a chair to sit on the other side of Ephron's bed. Ronica winced as he dragged it across the floor, but Ephron did not stir. When the portly Trader was settled, he gestured at her accounting books.

“And how do they go?” he asked familiarly.

“No better nor worse than any other Trader's these days, I am sure.” She evaded his prying. “War, blight and pirates trouble all of us. All we can do is to persevere and wait for better days. And how are you today, Davad?” She tried to recall him to his manners.

He put a splay-fingered hand on his belly meaningfully. “I have been better. I have just come from Fullerjon's table; his cook has an abominable hand with the spices, and Fullerjon has not the tongue to tell it.” He leaned back in his chair and heaved a martyred sigh. “But one must be polite, and eat what is offered, I suppose.”

Ronica stifled her irritation. She gestured toward the door. “We could take our conversation to the terrace. A glass of buttermilk might help to settle your indigestion as well.” She made as if to rise, but Davad did not budge.

“No, no, thank you all the same. I've but come on a brief errand. A glass of wine would be welcome, however. You and Ephron always did keep the best cellars in town.”

“I do not wish Ephron disturbed,” she said bluntly.

“Oh, I'll take care to speak softly. Though, to be frank, I would rather bring this offer to him than to his wife. Do you expect him to wake soon?”

“No.” Ronica heard the edge in her voice, and coughed slightly, as if it had been the result of a dry throat. “But if you wish to tell me the terms of whatever offer you bring, I shall present it to Ephron as soon as he awakens.” She pretended to have forgotten his request for wine. It was petty, but she had learned to take her small satisfactions where she could.

“Certainly, certainly. All Bingtown knows you hold his purse-strings. And his trust, I might add, of course.” He nodded jovially at her as if this were a high compliment.

“The offer?” Ronica pushed.

“From Fullerjon, of course. I believe it was his sole purpose in inviting me to share his table this noon, if you can credit that. The little upstart seems to think I have nothing better to do than act as his go-between with the better families in town. Did I not think that you and Ephron could benefit from his offer just now, I'd have told him as much. As things stand, I did not want to alienate him, you understand. He's no more than a greedy little merchant, but . . .” He shrugged his shoulders eloquently. “One can scarce do business in Bingtown these days without them.”

“And his offer was?” Ronica prompted.

“Ah yes. Your bottom lands. He wishes to buy them.” He espied the platter of small biscuits and fruits that she kept at Ephron's bedside and helped himself to a biscuit.

Ronica was shocked. “Those are part of the original grant lands of the Vestrit family. Satrap Esclepius himself granted those lands.”

“Ah, well, you and I know the significance of such things, but newcomers such as Fullerjon . . .” Davad began placatingly.