The hall was full, though everyone was still standing when Tamanier and Hermathya arrived together. Sithel had not yet come, and no one could sit until the speaker did so himself. For his part, Sithas stood behind his chair, impassive. Hermathya hoped he might react jealously upon seeing her on the arm of the stalwart Tamanier, but the prince kept his pensive gaze focused on the golden plate set before him.
Sithel entered with his wife. Servants pulled the tall chairs for the speaker and Nirakina, and Sithel took his place. “May the gods grant you all health and long life,” he said quietly. The vast hall had been constructed so that conversation at one end could be heard by parties at the other. The traditional greeting before meals carried easily to the entire oval table.
“Long life to you, Speaker of the Stars,” the diners responded in unison. Sithel sat. With much shuffling and squeaking of chairs, the guests sat down, too.
A troop of servers appeared, bearing a large pot. The pot swung on a long pole supported on the shoulders of two elves. Behind these servants, two more servers carried a slotted bronze box, from which a dull glow radiated. The box was full of large hearthstones that had been banked against the kitchen fires all day. Two servants set the bronze box on a stone slab, and the pot carriers eased the great cauldron onto the box. Now the soup would stay hot all through dinner—which could last several hours.
Young elf maidens clad in shifts of opaque yellow gauze slipped in and out among the seated guests, filling their bowls with steaming turtle soup. For those not inclined to soup, there was fresh fruit, picked that morning in the vast orchards on the eastern shore. Elf boys staggered under the weight of tall amphorae, brimming with purple-red nectar. The goblets of the guests were kept full.
With the first course served, Stankathan signaled to the servants at the doors of the hall. They swung them open, and a trio of musicians entered. The players of flute, lyre, and sistrum, arranged themselves in the far comer of the hall as conversation in the room began in earnest.
“I have heard,” opened old Rengaldus, guildmaster of the gemcutters, “that there is to be a conclave with representatives of Ergoth.”
“That’s old news,” said Zertinfinas, the priest. He hacked open a juicy melon and poured the seedy center pulp onto his plate. “The dwarves of Thorbardin are invited, too.”
“I have never seen a human close up,” remarked Hermathya. “Or talked to one.”
“You haven’t missed much, Lady,” Rengaldus replied. “Their language is uncouth and their bodies thick with hair.”
“Quite bestial,” agreed Zertinfinas.
“Those are your opinions,” Tamanier interjected. Many eyes turned to him. It was unusual for the junior noble to speak at all. “I knew humans out on the plains, and many of them were good people.”
“Yes, but aren’t they inherently treacherous?” asked the guildmaster of the sandalmakers. “Do humans ever keep their word?”
“Frequently.” Tamanier looked to his patron, Sithas, for signs of displeasure.
The speaker’s son, as usual, ate sparingly, picking grapes one at a time from the cluster on his plate. He did not seem to have heard Tamanier’s comments, so the favored young courtier continued. “Humans can be fiercely honorable, perhaps because they know so many of their fellows are not.”
“They are unredeemably childish in their tempers,” Zertinfinas asserted. “How can they not be? With only seventy or so years of life how can they accumulate any store of wisdom or patience?”
“But they are clever,” noted Rengaldus. He slurped a mouthful of nectar and wiped his chin with a satin napkin. “A hundred years ago there wasn’t a human alive who could cut a diamond or polish a sapphire. Now craftsmen in Daltigoth have learned to work gems, and they have undercut our market! My factors in Balifor say that human-cut gems are selling well there, mainly because they are far cheaper than ours. The buyers care less about quality than they do about the final price.”
“Barbarians,” muttered Zertinfinas into his cap.
The second course was brought out: a cold salad of river trout with a sweet herb dressing. Murmurs of approval circled the great table. Loaves of pyramid-shaped bread were also provided, smeared with honey, a confection greatly loved by elves.
“Perhaps one of the learned clerics can tell me,” Hermathya said, cutting herself a chunk of warm bread, “why humans have such short lives?” Zertinfinas cleared his throat to speak, but from the opposite side of the table, a new voice answered the lady’s question.
“It is generally considered that humans represent a middle race, farther removed from the gods and closer to the realm of the animals. Our own race—the first created, longer lived, and possessing a greater affinity for the powers of magic—is closest to the gods.”
Hermathya tilted her head to get a better look at the softspoken cleric. “I do not know you, holy one. Who are you?”
“Forgive me, Lady, for not introducing myself. I am Kamin Oluvai, second priest of the Blue Phoenix.” The young elf stood and bowed to Hermathya. He was a striking-looking fellow, in his brilliant blue robe and golden headband, with its inlay of a blue phoenix. His golden hair was long even by elven standards. Sithas studied him circumspectly. This Kamin Oluvai had not been to many royal dinners.
“What about these humans?” complained Zertinfinas loudly, beginning to feel his nectar. “What is to be done about them?”
“I believe that is a matter best left to the speaker,” Sithas replied. One hundred and fifty pairs of eyes looked to Sithel, who was listening with great care while eating his fish.
“The sovereignty of Silvanesti will be preserved,” the speaker said calmly. “That is why the conclave has been called.”
The prince nodded, then asked, “Is it true, Ambrodel, that there are more humans living in our western provinces than Silvanesti and Kagonesti?”
“More than the Silvanesti, Highness. But the true number of the Kagonesti is difficult to state. So many of them live in the remote parts of the forest, mountains, and plains.”
“Humans breed at any point past age fifteen,” blurted Zertinfinas. “They regularly have five and six children in a family!” Whispers of surprise and concern circled the table. Elven parents seldom had more than two children in their entire, lengthy lifetimes.
“Is that true?” Nirakina queried Tamanier.
“At least in the wild country it is. I cannot say what families are like in the more settled areas of Ergoth. But many of the children do not survive into adulthood. Human knowledge of the healing arts is not nearly so advanced as ours.”
The musicians completed their program of light tunes and began to play “The Sea-Elf’s Lament.” The main course was served.
It came rolling in on a large cart, a huge sculpture of a dragon done in golden-brown pie crust. The “beast” reared up five feet high. His back was scaled with mint leaves, his eyes and talons made red with pomegranates. The head and spiky tail of the dragon were covered with glazed nut meats.
The diners applauded this culinary creation, and Sithel himself smiled. “You see, my friends, how the cook is master of us all,” he proclaimed, rising to his feet. “For centuries the dragons preyed upon us, and now we have them to dinner.”
Stankathan stood by the pastry dragon, a sword in his hand. He jerked his head, and servants positioned a golden tray under the dragon’s chin. With a force that belied his age, the servant lopped off the dragon’s head. A flight of live sparrows burst from the open neck of the creation, each bird having silver streamers tied to its legs. The assembly gave a collective gasp of admiration.