Fall of Angels

LVI

“ … don’t understand why Lord Sillek is receiving this trader with such honor …”

As she catches the murmur from halfway down the long table on the low dais, Zeldyan smiles and, under the table, squeezes Sillek’s hand.

He turns and smiles at his consort.

“The honorable Lygon of Bleyans!” announces the young armsman-in-training at the doorway to the dining hall, his voice on the edge of cracking.

Retaining the smile on his face, Sillek stands to greet Lygon. Zeldyan rises almost simultaneously. At the end of the table to Sillek’s right, the lady Ellindyja smooths her face into a mold of polite interest. At the end to the left, Ser Gethen cultivates a look of indifference.

Lygon, a round-faced man wearing a maroon velvet tunic and a silver chain, marches up between the two rows of tables in the dining hall as the murmurs die away and the leading tradespeople and landowners of Lornth watch.

A quick trumpet fanfare sounds as Lygon steps onto the dais.

Sillek gestures to the empty seat to his right. “Welcome, Lygon. Welcome to Lornth, and to our hospitality.” He steps back. “This is Zeldyan, my lady and consort. Zeldyan, this is Lygon, the most honorable trader of Suthya.”

“Whenever you rulers call me honorable, Sillek, I want to reach for my purse.” Lygon overtops Sillek by half a head, but bows low, first to the Lord of Lornth, and then to Zeldyan. “It is a pleasure to meet you, lady, and to know that Lord Sillek has you to enchant him and grace his towers.”

“It is my pleasure to meet you, ser,” Zeldyan responds, smiling brightly. “And I will do my best to offer such grace, especially since you do us such honor.”

Behind her, Gethen nods minutely.

“We don’t want your purse, Lygon, just your presence.” Sillek laughs easily and stands until the trader sits.

Around the hall, the murmurs rise again.

Lygon stares frankly at Zeldyan for a moment before his eyes return to Sillek. “Your consort, she is a true beauty.” His eyes go back to Zeldyan. “And you are, my lady. Few indeed have your grace and beauty.”

“I do my poor best for my lord,” Zeldyan answers, “for he is dear to me.”

Lygon nods, neither agreeing nor disagreeing as Sillek himself pours the red wine from the pitcher between them into two goblets almost equidistant from each man. The trader takes the goblet fractionally closer to Sillek.

Sillek lifts the one remaining, raises it, and says, “To your continued health and to good trading.”

“To health and good trading,” affirms Lygon.

Those at the head table drink with Sillek and Lygon, though Zeldyan’s lips barely pass the wine.

Lygon sets his goblet before him and studies the great hall below the dais. “Quite a gathering.”

“Only the due of a first trader of Suthya.” Sillek takes another sip from his goblet. “Even my consort’s father made a special trip from Carpa to honor you.”

“First trader, twentieth trader-what difference does itmake?” Lygon shakes his head. “We’re all traders, and we try to be fair to all.”

Lygon’s voice carries, but his eyes are on Sillek, and he does not see how Ser Gethen’s lips tighten at his words.

“Fairness-that’s important to Lornth. It always will be,” answers Sillek.

“I had hoped that Lornth would continue the warm relationship enjoyed in the past with the traders of Suthya, and I am pleased to see such hospitality again offered.” Lygon downs the remaining wine in his goblet with a single swallow, then slices the pearapple on his plate into slivers and pops a pearapple section and a chunk of Rohrn cheese into his mouth. “Always have good cheeses here.”

“I am glad you find them so, and trust you will always do so.” Sillek takes a swallow of his wine, a swallow far smaller than it appears.

“The wine’s better than what your sire served. Where’d you find it?”

Sillek inclines his head toward Zeldyan. “The uplands of Zeldyan’s father’s lands produce a good grape, and better wine.”

“Ha! Consorted well, for beauty and good wine. You demon, you.” Lygon laughs.

Sillek smiles, as does Zeldyan, but, at their respective ends of the table, neither Gethen’s nor Ellindyja’s face mirrors such apparent pleasure.

“Heard some rumors-you know how things go-some rumors that a bunch of crazy women took over a mountaintop on your eastern marches.” Lygon swallows and chews more of the pearapples and cheese. “Some even say,” adds the trader through a full mouth, “they’re evil angels.”

“That has been said,” acknowledges Sillek, “and, if they survive the winter, I may well be occupied. Then again,” he laughs wryly, “I may be occupied with the Jeranyi. I’m certain you’ve also heard that rumor. Well … it’s true. I’ve got my chief armsman in Clynya. He’s not exactly pleased.”

“It has also been said that you handed Ildyrom a stinging defeat.” Lygon chews through the rest of the pearappleslices, barely avoiding spitting fragments across the linens.

At her end of the table, Lady Ellindyja contains a wince.

“The problem with such victories,” Sillek responds, “is that they require maintenance. And supplies,” he adds, looking at the trader.

“No business tonight, Lord Sillek,” protests Lygon. “It’s a cold winter out there, and tonight’s the time for warmth and good food.”

“I stand corrected.” Sillek raises his hands, half in laughter, half in mock defeat.

Zeldyan smiles. So does her father.