Letter to M'eri
Jarvais slipped into the space between two stalls and waited a moment to let his grand-uncle and the steward walk by. He was not - hiding, precisely, no. The conversation between the Lord and his servant was merely somewhat tense, and Jarvais had tired of being glanced at by the steward with that expression of 'can't you do something about this?'
What Jarvais could do to make his uncle hear reason was not, most certainly, to show him up in front of his own man. The young heir found it more than a little irritating that the steward wouldn't think this way, even for a moment.
"Lack of empathy is what's," he murmured, but got stuck on the next word in his mind - and was distracted, anyway, by the sudden attendance of one of the goods-keepers peeking out from his stall to ask if he could get his Lordship anything.
His Lordship, thought Jarvais, isn't me. Yet. But he put on his game, loose smile and shook his head, eyes sparkling to substitute for the gracious apology that refused to roll off of his tongue. This much served the man in the stall, and Jarvais slipped away without obligation to consider or buy a series of stacking ceramic herb-pots for the kitchen.
The hall served several purposes. It was storage for goods ready to travel not just among the hundred farms, but out of Greenfields territory entirely. It was storage also for any extra goods the main Hold wished to put up for the winter or for celebrations. It was the central hall for such celebrations, too, especially in the cold season when the courtyard alone was insufficient cover for a gather; and the rest of the time the hall provided shelter for traders and crafters and representatives from the farms who wished to do business at the Hold. Most Holds had some form of a craft hall that served at least some of these purposes; that Greenfields called theirs by another word was nod only to the nature of the Hold's ambitions.
The hall's great doors were rolled open today, leaving the main room exposed to the cool sunlight and crisp breezes like a barn full open to let the cows in. The air was scented with autumn's wares and the first hints of snow; the mountains were already growing their rich white winter sweaters.
Jarvais enjoyed the hall, though the place was rife with opportunity to be cornered into casual conversation with people he'd rather charm than bore. It could be stressful, especially when the crowds were thick. It was less crowded today, however, than he might like it to be.
He stole a moment beside a stand selling the last of the season's roasted corn, buying an ear to excuse his use of the little ledge at the side of the stall with salt and butter and pepper sauce. Upon that ledge - once he'd brushed off a few stray grains of salt - he spread out the hide he'd tucked at last minute into his coat. While the vendor tended his vats, Jarvais wrote.
Rider M'eri, of blue Yaneth,
He paused to look at that to be sure the address was as proper as it could be, and that he'd elided the name exactly right, and that the dragon's name was as he remembered it from the record he'd glanced at months before. He hardly knew the man; it wouldn't do to be too familiar. It would be worse, however, to screw up his name, or his mount's.
He'd check it once he got back to the Hold. Satisfied with this promise to himself, Jarvais continued.
It is with a heavy heart that I write to you to convey my regrets upon the passing of your former weyrleader. I hope that, aside from the sorrow of this occasion, my letter finds you well.
I enjoyed meeting you last Turn's End, and look forward to perhaps seeing you again when I visit Caucus for its upcoming celebration.
Jarvais couldn't help a grin, but he attended directly to finishing his letter, for he could hear peripherally the vendor speaking to a woman about the tenderness of the maize and the sweetness of the butter, and knew he'd soon need to clear off so she could dress up the ear she'd probably buy.
Do you and Yaneth enjoy the onset of winter? It's been lovely here, but I know how beautiful High Reaches is under a clean fresh snow. And how is Neiran? I have written him already, but of course he's too polite to tell me directly of himself.
I welcome you to write if you have time, but of course I know you must be busy, and I intend upon you no obligation.
He hadn't quite time enough to finish, and was obliged to lift the letter and sidestep to make room for the woman with her corn. After tucking the hide into his coat and putting away the pencil, he picked up his own snack, exchanged briefest possible pleasantries and a brilliant series of smiles with his fellow customer, then slipped away.
He'd tack on the 'Sincerely, Jarvais' back in his apartment, and send this one with the morning's runner.
M'eri replies.