The young man stood trying to look firm, but a person less perceptive than the Kalif could have seen his discomfort at being there: He'd been assigned this task by someone higher in the family.
The Kalif's voice was calm and mild, but his words were blunt. "So, Lord Paalu. Why did they send you to beard me? You're an attorney, true, but green, lacking experience. I've researched your family, you see. I'd expected your Uncle Meelor."
"Your Reverence, my Uncle Meelor is a tempestuous man."
The Kalif's eyebrows raised. He was tempted to ask if his uncle was afraid he'd end up assaulting or challenging his Kalif. Instead he asked, "As tempestuous as his now notorious cousin, the Lady Nertiilo?"
He waved off any reply, almost as he said it. "I don't expect an answer to that. The question was rhetorical. Do you have authority to make an agreement? Otherwise you're wasting my time."
The young attorney stiffened somewhat, as the Kalif had expected. "I have the authority in writing," he answered, and opening his belt purse, handed a rolled paper to the Kalif, who opened it, looked it over, and handed it back.
"Good. What figure did your uncle give you?"
His uncle Meelor had indeed set the price. Cousin Nertiilo had not become rational again, even after she'd metabolized the alcohol in her bloodstream. Thus she'd been interned by the family to hide the shame of her madness, and was in the care of an alienist. Apparently, the young man thought, the Kalif knew these things, too.
"Two hundred and fifty thousand dromas," he said.
"That much, eh? If I paid that much, I'd sue her in return, for slander. Probably for a quarter million. How would that look in the fax? That and other matters?"
"Your Reverence has bereaved her; left her a widow."
"True. And even if she recovers her sanity, she's unlikely to wed again, despite her good looks. After her public performance of ten days ago, any would-be suitor would investigate, and what he'd learn would cool his interest. But she's quite an affluent widow: I'm aware that her husband's will left her almost all of his estate, and his children remarkably little."
The Kalif examined the young man for visible reaction. "It would be interesting to know how she managed that," he added.
The young man darkened somewhat; apparently there was a story there, the Kalif decided. One he'd leave well enough alone, unless forced to pursue it.
"Well. I have a counter offer for you," he said briskly. "Based on several facts: one, that she and her family are not in need; two, that while I bear a major responsibility for her bereavement, she bore an equal one, or greater; three, that she caused my own wife pain and suffering; four, that such a person deserves little in the way of solace from her victims; and five—Well, hear my proposal."
His eyes pinned the young man. "Your uncle can accept this or not, but given the circumstances, he cannot call it stingy. I have already made reparations to Siisru's son and daughter, reparations they regarded as generous. But that was before I, and they, knew the terms of their father's will. So I herewith offer your cousin a reparation of 10,000 dromas."
He saw the expected flinch in the young man's face, and continued. "A sum greater than the annual income of most gentry families today, and in these times, greater than that of too many noble families.
"Besides, it's the sum that Siisru left to each of his children.
"At the same time I will offer to Siisru's two children an additional reparation of 40,000 each, money they should have gotten from their father." He reached inside his robe and took out a scroll of his own. "It's all there, on the scroll. Agreed?"
"My uncle will be wroth."
"Your uncle's wrath is chronic, and no secret among those who know him. Or so I'm told. In fact, it's a matter of public record, in the courts. You're a fortunate man not to share that sometime family trait. With regard to myself, he's well advised to keep his wrath closely reined; I'm disinclined to be tolerant with his niece's uncle. As for you—Weigh well your decision. And if your uncle is too upset, tell him what I would have done, if you'd refused these terms. Which is, I would have—and will if you're difficult—publicize the whole affair, certain pertinent aspects of your family history, and the miserable bequests to Siisru's children.
"Now. I will have your answer."
The young man looked to Jilsomo as if for support; the exarch's round face showed no trace of sympathy.
"It seems—I must accept."
The Kalif stood, removed a small scroll of his own from inside his robe, and held it out. The young man took it, pulled his chair closer to the desk to sign, and discovered that the sum on the agreement was 20,000, not ten. He wasn't sure what the Kalif's motive might have been for misleading him, but he signed both halves quickly, and handed it back. The Kalif separated them and gave one to him.
The young man stood to leave.
"One moment."
He stopped.
The Kalif's voice was mild. "As you know well, young attorney, it is customary to shake hands on such an agreement, unless one side feels there is serious injustice in it. Do you honestly—honestly—feel there is?"
The young man blew softly through pursed lips and shook his head. "No, Your Reverence, I do not honestly feel there is. Though I cannot speak for my uncle in that."
The Kalif extended his hand; they clasped and shook.
"Good. Go with Kargh, and may you prosper, both in wealth and in the spirit."
"Thank you, Your Reverence."
As the young man left, the Kalif looked at the clock on his wall. Almost time for his appointment with Neftha. I might as well go now, he told himself, and have done with it.