“I’m supposed to meet Magister Thorl here.”
“Ah… ha… he said you would be here. I apologize, ser. This way…” The vested man turned.
Rahl followed him to a corner table under a brass lamp suspended from the beamed ceiling by a large brass Chain. The table held two people and one vacant chair. With Magister Thorl was Deybri.
“Ah… good evening,” Rahl offered.
Thorl gestured expansively to the empty chair. “I did not mean to upset you, Rahl, but Deybri is my niece, and since you two get along, I thought it would be more enjoyable with three of us.”
His niece? Thorl didn’t look that much older than Deybri. “Oh, I’m not at all upset. I’m surprised, but pleasantly surprised. Very pleasantly surprised.”
Deybri laughed. “You’re gallant, but it’s nice to know that you also meant it.”
Rahl slipped into the chair.
Thorl was speaking to the man who had escorted Rahl to the table. “The leshak with the pashtakis for the first course, and then…”
“Your uncle,” murmured Rahl to Deybri, “I didn’t realize
“Talents for handling order—or chaos—do tend to run in families. You’ll find that many of the magisters and magistras and healers are related,” Deybri explained. “That can be a problem.”
“Oh, because people don’t like consorting with those who have order-talents? And those who do can only find relatives?”
She nodded.
“Your timing was excellent, Rahl,” began the magister in Hamorian. “We had only been seated a few moments. I wanted you to have some understanding of Hamorian food. That was Kysant himself who brought you here. I asked him to look out for you. His place is the only true. Hamorian-style eatery in Nylan. His grandfather was the cook on a Hamorian warship. He claims it was the fleet commander’s vessel. I’ve had my doubts about that, but the cooking is-authentic.”
Rahl nodded, wondering how Thorl might have known that.
“Uncle Thorl spent several years in Ada,” Deybri added, if in halting Hamorian.
Rahl almost laughed ruefully. When those around him could sense what he felt, before—and whether—he expressed it or not, the whole nature of conversation changed. “This takes getting worked… used to, I mean,” he replied, also in Hamorian.
“You will do well in Hamor,” Deybri continued in Hamorian. “You have no accent. I do.”
“I learned from your uncle and the children.”
“Actually, he does have ah accent, but it will work to his advantage,” said Thorl. “He speaks as I do, and that will tell people he is from Ada. That way, he will be considered Hamorian—but excused for not knowing all that he might about Swartheld.”
At that moment, a server appeared, wearing the same khakis as the owner had but a pale green vest. He set three goblets on the table and a large pitcher. Then came a circular bone porcelain platter with scalloped edges, which he placed in the center of the dark oiled wood of the table. On the platter were fried folded shapes that were roughly octagonal.
Thorl poured a clear liquid from the pitcher, half-filling each goblet. “Rahl, you must taste the leshak—it’s a wine from greenberries and white grapes. Drink it in moderation. It’s more powerful than it tastes.”
Rahl lifted the goblet, noting that the wine had the slightest of green tinges. He took a small sip. The wine was smooth and cool, with a taste that was unlike anything he’d ever had. Perhaps the closest might have been a cross of pearapple, green-apple juice, with a hint of honey, and an even tinier hint of pine.
“Although they use greenberries liberally, the taste is totally unlike the vaunted greenberry brandy of the north,” Thorl added.
Rahl had heard of the brandy, but no scrivener could ever have afforded it, nor could any of his friends or acquaintances.
“The pashtakis are a favorite and common dish everywhere in Hamor. They are spiced crab and mushroom filling inside a crispy fried pastry. The ones in Hamor are sweeter, because the southern crabs are more…” At that point, Thorl used a word that Rahl had never heard and could not discern from context.
“More what, ?”
“Juicy and tasty… succulent.”
Rahl concentrated on holding the word.
“These are still good, and perhaps better,” the magister went on. “They aren’t as likely to be cloying if you eat too many.” Thorl paused. “Cloying… too sickeningly sweet.”
“Thank you.”
Rahl sampled one of the pashtakis. The appetizer almost melted in his mouth after a single bite into it, leaving a piquant taste that was neither mushroom nor crab, yet both. “Good.”
“I thought you might like them,” replied Magister Thorl. “By the way, meals are far more social in Hamor than in Reduce. The midday meal is luncheon, and light, but an occasion for planning or business. The evening meal is late, well after twilight, and much more substantive—solid—if you will.”
“Do men and women eat together in public?” asked Rahl. “I had heard…”
“Only if they are consorted, or if a woman is accompanied by a male relative. Now… women can eat together in public, and groups of men and women can eat together at the same place if they are at separate tables. Among families or in private, it does not matter. Only the appearances matter.”
Rahl almost laughed. That sounded like Land’s End.
“That may be because their customs are more directly Cyadoran, as is the language itself,, which is decadent Cyadoran mingled with High Temple and fermented by time. Also, certain subjects are not discussed in public. They are not forbidden, but a sign of bad manners. One does not discuss family difficulties, nor order or chaos, or anything personal about the Emperor…”
Rahl listened intently.
Abruptly, Thorl broke off as the server reappeared and removed the platter that had held the pashtakis and replaced their platters with clean ones before placing two serving dishes before them. One held sheets of very thin pan bread, seemingly barely thicker than parchment, and the other long light brown cylinders.
“Biastras. Each slice of meat is braised in spiced oil just enough to brown it on each side, then rolled around sweet peppers that have been marinated—soaked in a mixture of special oils and spices for days,” Thorl explained to Rahl, “and each tube is braised just enough to warm the peppers. Then the meat is dipped in an egg and corn flour mixture and fried briefly in very hot oil.” After a moment, he added, “They actually make this with marinated wild horse meat in the far east of Hamor. I think it tastes better with horse meat than with beef or lamb, but you can find all three kinds of biastras.”
Rahl took a small bite of the end of the cylinder. Even the small mouthful left his mouth and nose burning. Sweat popped out on his forehead.
“I think I forgot to mention that they can be very spicy.” Thorl grinned.
Deybri laughed softly, then turned. “That was cruel, Uncle.”
“Somewhat, but had I told Rahl how hot it was, he would not have tried it.” He looked at Rahl. “Have a bite of the bread. That will cool the taste more than leshak or anything you drink. Too many sailors have ended up in the ironworks or the quarries for the Great Highway because they thought leshak would cool their throats.” He laughed jovially. “It will, but the cost can be rather exorbitant. High,” he explained, seeing Rahl’s momentary puzzlement at the unfamiliar word.
“Another way to eat them,” suggested Deybri, “is to wrap them in the thin bread and eat bread and biastras together. That’s what I do.”
Rahl followed Deybri’s example and found that the taste was merely close to unbearably spicy rather than intolerable.
“Burping or slurping… or smacking one’s lips,” Thorl went on, “is considered very common and bad manners…”
As he ate carefully, Rahl continued to listen. He also only sipped the leshak.
Before long, the biastras and bread had vanished, and the server placed another platter before them.
Magister Thorl gestured. “Khouros. Two cinnamon pastry tubes—one inside the other and tied together with a thin layer of honey. The inner tube is filled with sweet creamy cheese.”
Rahl enjoyed the dessert greatly, perhaps because he’d missed true sweets and perhaps because the khouros removed all the aftertastes of the spicy Hamorian dishes.
When he finished, he looked at the magister and inclined his head. “Thank you so much. This is the best meal I’ve had since I came to Nylan, and certainly with the best company.” He turned to Deybri. “With the exception of those I’ve had with you, but neither the food nor the other company was so good.”
Thorl laughed. “That was the best sentence you uttered in Hamorian, and a perfect conclusion to a meal.”
Deybri just shook her head.
Thorl turned to Rahl. “I’d be most appreciative if you would walk Deybri home. It’s not that far.”
“Uncle…” Deybri half protested.
“Humor me, if you would. I have certain matters to take care of with Kysant.”
“Of course.”
Rahl rose, scarcely before Deybri did. He inclined his head to the magister once more. “Thank you again.”
“It was my pleasure.”
Neither Deybri nor Rahl spoke until they were out on the street. “Which way?” Rahl asked.
She laughed. “You don’t have to speak Hamorian any longer.”
“Oh…I’m sorry.” ‘
“Uncle said” you had a gift for languages. You certainly do.“ Deybri gestured. ”Up the main road. We’ll turn east a little less than a kay along.“
“Did he teach you Hamorian?”
“He tried. I spent a little time, just a few eightdays, in Atla years ago.”
“I can’t imagine you were exiled.”
“No, but the magisters felt I needed to see what happened when only strength of some sort ordered a land. So I was sent as a healer to work with a trading company. I was ready to come back to Nylan after a few days… and very grateful to be allowed to.”
Rahl couldn’t help but shiver at the implications of her words. He remained silent for a time as they walked uphill.
“You have great promise, Rahl…”
“But?”
She did not respond immediately, as if thinking what exactly to say in reply. Then she pointed. “Along this lane.”
“How far?”
“Three or four hundred cubits. It’s not that far from Kadara’s dwelling. The original Kadara, that is.”
“What were you going to say?” he asked.
“You have great promise,” she repeated, “but you need to think and feel beyond yourself without prompting. Especially to feel.”
The dwelling before which she stopped was small, no more-than fifteen cubits in width, with a door in the middle. “It was once a small barn, but I don’t need much space, and it’s very quaint.”
“I’m sure it’s lovely inside.”
“I think so, but we’ll forgo your finding out tonight. You’re sweet at heart, and someday you’ll understand the difference between thinking you know what you feel and knowing with all your being what you feel.”
“Is that a promise?” Rahl replied lightly, although her words had somehow burned in a way that he could not have explained.
“No. I can’t make promises for you.” Deybri smiled, opening the door. “Good night, Rahl. Thank you for walking me home.”
“I enjoyed it.” He offered a smile, then stepped back and let her close the door.
Despite their age difference, Deybri was interested in him, but she wasn’t going to let him get closer to her, or herself to him. Was it just because he was being exiled? No… there was something else he was missing, something beyond the words about feeling.
But why couldn’t people just say what they meant?
He turned and began to walk back toward the training center and his own bed.
For almost an eightday, Zastryl had drilled Rahl with various blades, forcing him to learn the basic moves. Holding the blades had been uncomfortable, and more tiring than using a staff or truncheon, even though the ironbound staff was heavier than all but the big two-handed broadsword. But Rahl didn’t have any difficulty handling the discomfort. He did wonder why Zastryl insisted he spend so much time practicing by himself. When Rahl had asked why, the answer had sobered him.
“So long as you just practice moves, it’ll be slightly painful to most of you black types. Once I make you spar, it’s going to hurt a lot. There’s no point in hurting you while you’re learning the basics. That would just slow things down, and you don’t need that.”
Then, on threeday, Zastryl appeared with another weapon and handed the scabbard and sheath to Rahl. “This is a falchiona. It’s the most common blade in Hamor. It’s a cross between a sabre and a falchione, with a few nasty touches.” The armsmaster smiled. “The naval marines call it a bitch blade. It has a few peculiarities you won’t find anywhere except Hamor. For most of the length of the blade, like a sabre, it only has one edge. But from the tip back for the first hand, both sides are edged. The means you can slash from either direction at the tip, but you don’t sacrifice the strength of the body of the blade. It’s harder to handle well. That’s why we didn’t start with it.” He nodded, “Draw it.”
Rahl suppressed a wince as he did. The shimmering Hamorian steel felt evil, far more so than the other blades he’d handled.