Could be a little of both, he thought. At the first few mouthfuls of mystery-meat, his hunger had overcome his aversion. Now the edge was off his appetite, and he wished the evening could just end.
Despite Naitachal's dark presence at the board of honor, the meal became festive, with idle chatter in both languages flowing from table to table. A servant offered Alaire wine, but he politely refused, knowing that even a little bit in his exhausted state would lay him out on the floor. He seldom drank anyway.
As the meal ended, a six-piece consort struck up some dance music. Evidently there was no prohibition here against couples dancing, and a few of the more bold or boisterous joined in a lively gigue in a section of floor cleared away by the servants. Alaire took this chance to try to get back to Naitachal.
He encountered a barrier of noblemen and their assistants; apparently, during dinner, word had circu- lated that it might be wise to cultivate Ambas Naitachal's acquaintance. From what little Alaire saw, the nobles showed him at least the respect his office deserved. However, they kept a certain uneasy dis- tance from his Master, who remained a solitary black figure ringed by a moat of stark wooden floors, bridged only by the briefest bow and a few hurried words.
Later, I'll talk to him, Alaire thought. He seems to be doing fine, given the circumstances. I would only attract attention if I made a point of joining him.
He backed away from the impromptu receiving line, looking for something to do. He felt completely useless. But then, that was the idea.
At another table sat several apparently available young ladies (not of highborn, but of some other ranked or wealthy class). A young man, a teenager really, stood in front of the table, telling an animated tale of some sort, gesturing wildly with his arms in wide sweeping motions. The boy's striking attire im- pressed Alaire more than his demeanor did His white and red cloak, embroidered with gold thread, hung to the side. He wore the most unusual gold hos Prince had ever seen. Despite the finery, however, he looked like an unmade bed. Half his shirt hung out over his hose, and his white scarf looked ready to fall off. As he drew closer, he saw why; the boy was drunk out of his mind.
Alaire thought the boy was telling the women a humorous story in the native language. Perhaps he's some kind of well-born court jester, Alaire thought.
But as he continued to watch, it became obvious that, despite the young man's brave (and intoxicated) at- tempts at gallantry, the women were laughing at him.
He was obviously the son of one of the nobles meeting with Naitachal, given his dress, and he'd had far too much to drink.
Alaire's heart went out to the stranger, as he knew too well the stresses a royal court could put on young men and women. He's of the age when parents start pairing their children off, whether or not they even know each other, he thought, reminding himself that his father had given him more choices than most noble children. It could even be that the poor young- ster had just been informed of his impending nuptials ... and that the bride made one of the dieren look like a better mate.
Better save this lad before he makes a complete fool of himself, he decided, though he knew it was prob- ably too late. Or at least, before he offends someone.
Alaire wasn't even sure the young man spok Althean language; he approached his target with some trepidation, and took him by the elbow to lead him off in what he hoped was a friendly manner. He half expected the stranger to swing around and hit him, or at least try to escape his "rescuer." Yet in the general confusion, with people of all castes milling around, and music increasing in volume, he led the young man away from the table without arousing his suspicion, or, apparently, his attention.
Alaire took him to a balcony that looked over the courtyard below. No one else was out there in the cold, and Alaire shivered in a wind which bit sharply at his bare skin.
The young man started to shiver a little as well, as he looked about in a land of daze, as if he could not imagine how the table full of young women had turned into a balcony. Good. Maybe this will sober him up a little. Alaire gently turned him, so lanterns burn- ing on either side of the balcony illuminated his face.
He looked at Alaire, bewildered, as if it was the first time he had noticed him, and began babbling in his native tongue.
Alaire shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, whoever you are. I don't speak your language at all."
If I can keep him out here in this cold he might straighten up a little. Alaire had been drunk exactly twice in his life, once on his thirteenth birthday and then, more recently, at the wedding of the daughter of the Mayor of Fenrich. Both times, ice applied to the forehead seemed to take care of the more unpleasant side effects. This wind was practically the same thing.
"A southerner, then," the boy said suddenly. "Don't get many of you around here."
Though it was with a heavy accent, including a strong rolling of the r's, he spoke Alaire's language clearly, without hesitation. As the boy sobered, he examined the bardling, in a way that reminded Alaire of the King's look as they entered. The youngster even took the sleeve of his shirt and studied the fabric.
One thing was certain, this youngster was not one of the servants.
He must have said that aloud, for the young man started. "You're no peasant yourself!" the boy said loudly, but it did not sound as if he was trying to be impolite. "What brings you to Rozinki?"
"Business, of a sort," Alaire said, hesitating. "I'm .. .
Alaire, an assistant to the Ambassador of Althea. The dark fellow, up there with the King."
"Ambassador from Althea? Didn't know we even had one." His face went sour, as if he'd bit into a bad apple. "Who wants to discuss kingdom business tonight, anyway? It's not even midnight yet!"
As the boy spoke, a puff of breeze blew his breath into Alaire's face, and Alaire wrinkled his nose. The boy smelled like a brewery.
How much has he had to drink anyway? Alaire wondered, since he didn't recall seeing him at the din- ner earlier. There was something about the way he phrased things that made Alaire wonder: Is he some by-blow of the royal family too?
"Then I suppose you've already had the pleasure of meeting my father," the stranger continued, sardoni- cally. The way he emphasized the word "father" suggested they didn't get along very well.
"Well," Alaire said, uncertainly. "Perhaps. I'm sorry, but which man was your father?" He knew he was probably committing a sizable blunder by admitting ignorance, but could think of no other way to fin A broad smile creased the stranger's boyish fea- tures, a mischievous gleam that made Alaire instantly wary.
The young man led Alaire to the balcony doors, where the supper guests were still milling about, cir- cling around Naitachal like curious, but frightened little birds about a great black eagle.
"See the big fat man up there in the purple coat?" the boy asked ungraciously.
The only person in purple was the King. "You King Archenomen?" Alaire was a This is the crown prince? Drunk as a soldier on leave?
"Prince Kainemonen at your service," the boy announced, bowing an exaggerated bow, removing his hat with a sweeping gesture. "But you can call me Kai.