Setting aside a stack of papers, Piers smiled just slightly at Ordhan's pause, his hint of bewilderment, but said nothing; or at least, he had no time to before it was his own turn to be taken by surprise. His brow crept upward at the proffered letter, which he all the same reached across the table to accept with every measure of social grace, no matter his visible astonishment.
"From Constans?" Piers regarded Ordhan skeptically over his spectacles before glancing down at the folded bit of paper, turning it over in his fingers. He stared for a silent moment at the cramped handwriting on the front; his own, barely legible name, in a script only a little different from one he recognized very, very well. "My word. When I suggested to Desiderio that he convince the boy to write, I hardly expected our gambit to succeed."
He looked curiously up at Ordhan again, unopened letter pressed between two fingers, keen eyes scrutinizing the Knight closely. Although his eyes indeed resembled his son's, at that particular moment they gave precisely the opposite impression that the younger Ledaal's so often did; not of looking through Ordhan as did Constans', or even at him, but into him, as though every measure of Ordhan's discomfort were laid bare before those eyes.
"My thanks indeed to you, Ser, for this most unusual and welcome delivery. But I wonder if you will permit an old man a moment of impertinence?" He tapped his fingers, and the letter, against his thigh thoughtfully.
"If I may ask more pointedly; What brings you here today?"