My Dear Antoine,

Well, old boy, if this letter finds you in good health, good spirits, and still in possession of all your worldly goods, I shall consider that a fine beginning. Particularly the last of those three, eh? Ha! I trust the southern weather hasn’t baked your whiskers off, nor has business been so dreadful that you’ve taken to selling the furniture. Though knowing you, I expect you’d make a handsome profit on the furniture before anybody realized it was theirs to begin with.

Things here in Yaruma have been rather agreeable, all considered. Business has been good, the markets have been lively, and we’ve managed to turn a respectable bit of silver without having to shoot anybody particularly important. That’s always a comfort, I find. The little bastard has been keeping the accounts, and I must say he’s getting rather good at it.

Too bloody good, if you ask me.

Caught me out on a freight calculation the other morning, and then had the cheek to explain where I’d gone wrong. Imagine that! Twelve years old and already telling his father how to conduct business. I told him another performance like that and I’d put him in charge of the whole enterprise, whereupon he asked whether that meant he’d be entitled to a larger share of the profits.

Ha! There’s gratitude for you.

Mind you, I shouldn’t complain. He’s a good lad, Antoine. A damned good lad. Knows his figures, keeps his head when things get troublesome, and has a nose for a dishonest bargain that would put half the merchants in this city to shame. Still can’t keep hold of his supper if there’s something interesting happening on the other side of the street, but I suppose we must allow him a few shortcomings.

He’s been asking about the Northern caravans, incidentally. Wants to know how long the journey takes, whether the roads are dangerous, what sort of folk we’ll be meeting, and whether there’ll be any decent places to eat. That last question is becoming something of a recurring concern with him. Growing boy, you understand.

Eats like a bloody furnace.

You ought to see him now, by the way. I daresay you’ll scarcely recognize the little rascal after all these years. He’s shot up considerably since you last saw him, and acquired a few opinions of his own into the bargain. Quite a few, actually, and he’s seldom shy about sharing them. I expect he’ll remember you well enough once he’s had a moment to put the face to the name, though I wouldn’t be surprised if he asks whether you’ve brought him anything. He’s developed a remarkable interest in presents, particularly those that can be eaten or sold.

Anyway, the long haul is nearly at an end, thank the stars, and I’ll be damned glad to see the last of it. There’s only so much time a fellow can spend arguing with freight clerks, inspecting cargo manifests, and explaining to otherwise intelligent creatures why a crate of ammunition ought not to be stored beside a heating conduit.

We’ve a few matters left to settle here, but nothing that should interfere with our departure. If all goes as expected, we’ll be heading south at the beginning of caravan season. I’ll send word once the arrangements are properly settled, and you can put the kettle on, dust off the good glasses, and prepare yourself for the arrival of your favorite younger brother.

…And before you say anything, yes, I know I’m your only younger brother. Don’t spoil the sentiment, you miserable old bastard

Speaking of which, I must thank you again for allowing us the use of Father’s vault. I know perfectly well you don’t care for having other folk’s merchandise cluttering up the place, especially when it comes in heavy crates and requires a good deal of shifting about. Still, it’s a damned sight more reassuring knowing the DrakeShot is sitting somewhere safe until we can collect it.

The magistrate’s people can have their own arrangements, and the Temple fellows can keep whatever peculiar treasures they’re trying to sell this season. All I ask is that our ammunition remains exactly where it belongs, preferably without some enterprising little thief deciding to improve his circumstances at our expense.

Funny thing, that vault. I was thinking about it the other evening, and for the life of me I couldn’t remember when Father had the damned thing installed. Must have been before my time, surely. I can remember the shop well enough, of course, and that enormous mirror behind the counter, but I don’t recall anybody putting it there.

You always insisted you remembered the business, though I suspect that’s because you’ve been old since the day you were born. Ha! Still, Father certainly knew what he was doing. Whatever else one might say about the old boy, he understood the importance of keeping one’s valuables out of reach of the wrong sort of company.

And there’s a lesson in that, Antoine, one I’ve been trying to impress upon Skeer whenever the opportunity presents itself. Any fool can put something valuable behind a locked door. Give a fellow enough time, enough tools, and a sufficient interest in what’s on the other side, and sooner or later he’ll find a way through it. A bigger lock only tells him there’s something worth stealing. A thicker door tells him the same thing, only louder.

And a great iron strongbox sitting in the middle of a room might as well have a sign hanging over it announcing that the owner has something he doesn’t want anybody else to see.
No, no, the clever fellow does things differently. He understands that folk are inclined to see precisely what they expect to see, and precious little besides.

Father was rather good at that sort of thing, wasn’t he? Bloody infuriating when you were on the receiving end of it, mind you. I remember him telling me once that a merchant ought never to show a customer everything he has, and ought never to let a thief know how much he’s lost. I didn’t understand half of what he was talking about at the time, though I nodded along like a sensible little fellow.

You probably understood it immediately, being the insufferably clever little sod you always were.

But the older I get, the more I appreciate what he meant. There’s something to be said for leaving the most important things hidden in plain sight.

Mind you, I expect I’m preaching to the converted. You’ve been dealing in antiques, curiosities, and other people’s forgotten valuables for longer than I care to remember, and I daresay you’ve had more than your share of fools wandering through that shop. Still, do keep your wits about you, old boy. I’ve heard a few unpleasant things concerning the southern routes of late, and while I don’t put much stock in every tavern tale carried north by a frightened caravan driver, there’s generally a grain of truth buried somewhere beneath all the exaggeration.

Bandits, smugglers, crooked brokers, and the usual assortment of ambitious little bastards who imagine a merchant’s livelihood exists solely for their convenience.

I’d rather not arrive to discover you’ve been robbed blind, beaten senseless, or otherwise inconvenienced by some damned fool with a pistol and an inflated opinion of himself. Particularly when you’ve got our merchandise sitting there. Not that I doubt your ability to look after yourself, of course.

You’ve always been a slippery old devil, and I expect anybody trying to get the better of you would have a thoroughly miserable afternoon of it. Nevertheless, do try to stay clear of those bloody southern troubles until we arrive. I’d like to enjoy a decent drink with my brother without first having to recover his possessions from the local criminal fraternity.

Well, that’s enough of my rambling for one evening. Give my regards to the usual crowd, assuming any of the old rogues are still alive and haven’t been carted off for cheating at cards. Tell them I’ll be along soon enough, and that I expect a proper welcome when I arrive.

Skeer sends his regards as well, though he’s presently fast asleep and therefore unable to object to my speaking on his behalf.

He’s looking forward to seeing you again, even if it’s been long enough that I suspect you’ll both need a moment to recognize one another. I’ll bring him around to the shop once we’ve settled the cargo. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, a respectable appetite, and a rather alarming talent for making money disappear from other people’s pockets without doing anything technically dishonest.

Father would have liked him, I think.

Anyway, look after yourself, Antoine. Keep the shop in one piece, keep the silver somewhere sensible, and for pity’s sake don’t let any of those southern bastards make off with the family fortune. I’ll see you at the start of caravan season, and we’ll have ourselves a proper drink.

Your loving brother,

Roland

P.S. If you happen to find that old bottle Father kept behind the counter, the one you always insisted was being saved for a special occasion, I should think the arrival of your beloved younger brother qualifies. And don’t tell me you’ve already drunk it. I know you.