“Woo her as you see fit, then,” said his father. Deep in his chest, that ominous wheeze. “But if you think she’ll suit, don’t take too long to speak up.”

“My lord,” he said, hiding all distress. “As always, I’ll follow your excellent advice.”

Two hours, just over, it took them to plough through the Danfey accounts and estates. All in all their prospects continued comfortable, was Nydd’s conclusion. Farms, crops, livestock and trading ventures prospered as well as could be expected, the vagaries of life notwithstanding. The three-way trouble with Brantone, Manemli and Ranoush was unfortunate, but none of their traders was in trouble over it, at least. Still, the rumblings would bear close watching. Banditry in Trindek and a long spell of foul weather in Feen had taken a toll on their pressed suswill oil and mageworked leather goods, it was true, but those losses were neatly offset by the new strike of firestones in their Ranoush mine holding. Demand for the gems in Dorana was not likely to fade, at least not in the next several years. And this year’s icewine vintage promised to be exceptional, as did their Brantish oldberry harvest. They could look forward to much success in both cases. The furs they procured in Iringa were also turning a tidy profit, though they should be warned there was a looming danger of the rare Iringan snowcat being hunted to extinction.

“If they could be bred in captivity I’d suggest it,” Nydd sighed. “But they can’t. And since restraint by other hunters is unlikely, my advice is to make a push to take as many of what’s left of the beast as we can, hoard the pelts until they’re all gone, and watch the prices shoot skyward.”

“And sound advice it is,” said Morgan. “See to it, Nydd.” He turned. “Unless you have any objection, my lord?”

His father waved a hand. “None.”

Nydd made a note. “Very good, my lord. And that just leaves the Second district horse farms…”

The discussion of which didn’t take long. The meeting concluded, Morgan left his father to gossip with Nydd and withdrew from the library to find Rumm.

“Sir?” said the master servant, looking up from a saucepan. He was in the kitchen, tasting a sauce. The cook looked nervous, awaiting his verdict. “Is there a problem?”

His polite way of asking Is His Lordship in distress? Rumm was nothing if not a monument to tact.

“A word, Rumm,” he said, with a jerk of his head.

Rumm put down the spoon. “Sir.”

Discreetly distant from the cook, whose back was now turned as he prudently sharpened a carving knife, Morgan folded his arms. “You discussed me with Lord Danfey.”

“Yes.” Rumm blinked. “In the course of my duties I do sometimes make reference to you, sir. Was there something in particular that—”