His preference for decadent dishes, coupled with his obsession for the various fruits and vegetables arranged in sunbursts and crescents around the table caused many to call him a "man of weak stomach." Grey preferred to call himself a "creature of delicacy and culture."
To Greyt it hardly mattered; he was, after all, Quaervarr's hero.
Greyt was disappointed a certain half-elf woman was not there to sit with him, but he was not terribly troubled. He could appreciate silence once in a while, even in his line of work.
As though in response to his thoughts, a door swung open and Claudir stepped inside. "Lyetha Elfsdaughter, the Lady Greyt," he announced.
His forehead suddenly itching, Greyt thought it might serve him best to forbid her entrance. He was about to reply to his steward's announcement when Lyetha swept into the room, almost bowling over Claudir. Greyt had to remember to suck in his breath when he saw her, or he might have berated her then, and the illusion would be spoiled.
A cascade of glowing amber hair fell around Lyetha's shoulders and her eyes blazed with sapphire light. Her face, with its distinct gold tinge, hinted clearly at her sun elf heritage. Slim and perfectly rounded, she radiated beauty in her gown of gleaming black, even as the color made Greyt wince. The frown on her full lips drew her face down, exposing soft wrinkles that hinted at her age, but she was still stunning. Lyetha had aged much more gracefully than Greyt ever would, and while they were nearly the same age, he looked at least two decades her senior.
Greyt had once thought Lyetha an incarnation of Hanali Cenali herself and pursued her with single-minded determination.
Once.
"Ah, my matchless darling," he said grandly as she swept toward him. "Do you find this evening to your liking, Morning Star?" His tone was purposefully poetic.
Lyetha ignored the compliment. She stood a short distance from the table, crossed her arms, and shifted her weight onto her back foot. "Care to explain yourself, Dharan?" she asked, the sarcasm thick on her tongue. Even so, the tone of her voice was rich, with a hint of a melody begging for release.
"I beg your pardon?" Greyt asked. He swept his hand out, gesturing for her to sit, and sipped his wine. "Pray, try some of this vintage. Amnian, I believe-or so Claudir tells me. He's always the one who keeps track. I just tell him which wines I like and which I don't."
Lyetha sat but did not follow Greyt's advice about the wine. She served herself, taking some of the vegetables on the table. After she had filled the plate, she ignored her food. Her attention remained on the Lord Singer.
"You know exactly what I mean," she said. "A bard with your long years of training and experience doesn't falter on a simple lyric, particularly one in a song you wrote yourself and have sung for almost a decade and a half."
"Don't be ridiculous," Greyt said, only half paying attention. "I would never-"
"The song about the children?" Lyetha pressed. "The missed note?"
Greyt was about to dismiss whatever she'd been about to say, but he was knocked off his guard. Of course she would ask about that. After all, it did ring with some importance to her.
"Ah yes," he said. "A minor mishap. Must be getting on in years. Watch out, I might become Elminster before you know it."
"Pausing on Ghar-on that monster's name is a minor mishap?" Lyetha countered. She stumbled over the name of Greyt's father, Gharask. "I could feel a chill, and yet-"
A retort died on his lips and he looked her in the eyes for the first time that evening.
"I'm sorry, love," he said. "Coincidence, and that 'twas a cold night. No man is perfect, right?"
There was silence for a long moment. Greyt, who was purposefully not looking at Lyetha once more, could feel her eyes on him. He took a long time cutting a piece of lamb into tiny pieces and raised the pink meat to his lips. Though it was too hot, he suppressed the wince. Such an expression would not do, not in the current situation.
He noticed again her black dress. Of course Lyetha would be wearing mourning colors near the end of winter. This year made even more sense, being the fifteen-year anniversary of the murders that had claimed the last thing she had loved.
"But that name-" Lyetha started.
"Yes?" Greyt asked impatiently.
She opened her mouth to ask a question.
At that moment, the door from the inner hall flew open and Meris stormed into the room, muttering something. He wore his white tunic, but there was a black robe in his hand. No sword was belted on his hip, but the fierce expression on his face was just as dangerous as any length of sharpened steel. Lyetha started, almost leaping from her chair.
Meris stopped and scowled at her.
"Don't rise, Lyetha," the dusky scout snapped. "I won't be staying."
Greyt stretched lazily. "Meris, sit-eat with us," he offered.
"I'm not hungry." Meris didn't bother regarding either of them. "I'm going out."
"At least offer a kind word to your lady mother," Greyt said. "You've startled her."
Meris stopped in his tracks. He turned his head toward them. "I am under no obligation to show any courtesy to her," he said to the Lord Singer. "My mother was not an elf-get trollop." With that, he looked away and strode through the double doors. They slammed shut behind him.
"No, your mother was Amnian," Greyt mused as he sipped his wine.
After a moment, he became aware that Lyetha was staring at him. He looked over at her, met her cold blue gaze, and shrugged.
"Pay it no mind, dear," he said. "Young men say things without thinking. I've oft thought he needs a cool head to temper him, but I haven't found any worthy woman."
Lyetha sniffed.
They sat in silence for a few moments, then she rose and silently took her leave. She stopped at the door but did not turn.
"Dharan," Lyetha asked, without looking back. "About Gharask… and Rhyn. Is there any doubt that your father killed my son?"
"No, my dear. Of course, no," he replied without turning his head or missing a beat. "No more than scarlet falls the snow."
He took another sip of his wine and pretended to ignore her. It was not difficult.
Lyetha sighed and slipped out the door, seeking the refuge of her chambers.
After spending plenty of silver on drinks for potential informants and learning nothing of import, Arya gave up and climbed out of the tavern. The meaty barkeep Brohlm thanked her and swept up her coins with a flick of his thick wrist.
While the customers of the Red Bear were very knowledgeable about Quaervarr's history and the surrounding lands, they knew nothing of Stonar's couriers. They had told her all about Greyt and Stonar's rivalry-the two seemed at odds over every public issue, but it was a friendly competition, by all appearances. She did not blame them-they were simple frontiersmen-but she found her search's fruitlessness irritating.
Besides, she had heard far too much about her adored step-uncle.
In the cold once more, Arya shivered and adjusted the cloak around her shoulders. The ale stain on her breeches was freezing. Not for the first time, she wished she had sent Derst on this foray instead. He was more adept at gathering information, for pressing into the right threads of a conversation, and for discerning something useful where she found only local history and superstition. Perhaps she would have him go out the following night.
Arya set out through the streets toward the Whistling Stag, where a warm bed and a pair of drunken, invariably laughing compatriots awaited her. She knew she would enjoy the former, but she wasn't especially looking forward to the latter.
Arya turned around a corner and caught sight of the Stag. She shivered and continued on, looking forward to the warmth.