Tobin was taking little time to savor the morningfeast himself, and Cephas hoped the goliath’s constitution would aid him in keeping down the enormous quantities of food he consumed at a steady pace. The only other person who sat at the table, a human and a stranger to Cephas, sat watching Tobin, clearly impressed.
The gray-haired man wore a short beard, neatly trimmed and oiled to a point. He smiled and beckoned for Cephas to join them. His manner was relaxed, but Cephas saw that he was armed with an ornate dagger thrust through a corded belt. Otherwise, he was dressed much like Cephas and Tobin.
“Welcome to my table, friend,” the old man said. “I am Acham yn Aban el Jhotos yi Almraiven, Caleph Arcane of the Alcazar, Pasha of the Guild Arcane, and humbled to serve this ancient city as its Sultan Supreme.”
Tobin spoke around a mouthful of mutton. “Corvus says we’re to call him ‘Your Grace.’ Or ‘WeavePasha.’ ”
The man smiled and nodded. “Yes, those are appropriate. It is unfortunate, but no whisper in this place falls only on the ears it was meant for, and my vizars are much invested in the formalities of rank and station. Even old friends such as Corvus Nightfeather and honored guests such as you and this redoubtable goliath must keep the forms, lest I find myself being tutored in protocol by my grandchildren.”
Cephas sat next to the WeavePasha at the man’s waved invitation and made a careful study of the closest platters. A heavy plate, gilded and empty, lay before him. He saw no utensils, but Tobin apparently violated no protocols in eating with his hands. Cephas tentatively reached for a bunch of purple fruits, glistening with condensation, and set them on his plate. As if sensing his reticence, the WeavePasha said, “Please, allow me to serve you.”
Cephas leaned back, expecting the man to take his plate, but instead, the WeavePasha clapped twice. A dizzying array of fruits, meats, and flatbreads flew from every direction, and Cephas ducked, sure he was about to be pelted with the food. Instead, an artfully arranged meal settled down onto his plate.
Before he could give the WeavePasha his thanks, Ariella took a seat beside him. “Good morning, honored WeavePasha,” she said. “I see that Cephas is impressed by your famously generous table. You will forgive your humble guest, I pray. He is new to the ways of the wider world.”
The WeavePasha said, “Yes, I was about to ask him about that, in fact. And good morning to you, Mistress Kulmina. Your countrymen have awaited your return most anxiously.”
An unpleasant look Cephas hadn’t seen before came to the windsouled woman’s face-one that unaccountably troubled him-but she said only, “I am sure.”
“Now, young man,” said the WeavePasha, surprising Cephas by taking his hand, “what am I to call you? Your friends name you Cephas, and I know the spymaster believes you to be connected to the windsouled el Arhapan pashas of the Calimien. Are you Cephas el Arhapan yi Calimport, then?”
Cephas frowned. “I–I am Cephas, Your Grace. It is the only name I’ve known, though Ariella has called me Cephas Earthsouled. The freedmen I was raised among had other names for me, but I hope you will not ask me to answer to those.”
The WeavePasha’s broad smile faded. “No, of course not. Cephas you have been and Cephas you shall be. At least until you decide to be someone else.”
Cephas selected one of the glistening purple fruits he’d chosen for himself before the WeavePasha filled his plate. “Is that something one can do in Almraiven? Decide to be someone else?”
This time the wizard’s grin was rueful and accompanied by a shrug. “A fair enough question. Though unexpected from one who travels in the company of a kenku who has as many names as he does voices.”
Tobin paused in his chewing. “I have known Corvus for many years,” he said. “His was the first name I learned outside those of my clansmen. I believe it to be his real name.”
The WeavePasha nodded in acknowledgment. “It is the one they gave in the rookeries in his youth, yes.”
Tobin and Cephas were taken aback by the idea of Corvus as a child, and even Ariella gave the WeavePasha a long, considering look. “You knew the ringmaster when he was young?” asked Tobin.
The WeavePasha laughed. “Let us say I knew of him, at least. Just as I know of these two extraordinary halflings by their reputations.” Shan and Cynda, in the same fighting leathers they’d passed through the portal wearing, approached the table. The WeavePasha greeted them in a language Cephas did not recognize, full of lilting, songlike sounds and phrases.
The women bowed. Shan tensed at something the WeavePasha said, but sat when her sister did.
“You will forgive me, I trust, for welcoming your friends in their own tongue. I sought to make them comfortable after their restless night checking the boundaries of the garden and seeking a way into the palace. It is my hope that they will both sleep through the night should you grace this house with your company for another day.”
“I’ve never known them to both be asleep at the same time,” said Mattias. Like the sisters, the old ranger had not followed Tobin’s and Cephas’s example in wearing the garments the WeavePasha’s servants left in the tents. The bit of straw stuck in his grizzled beard suggested he had not even made use of the bed, but slept with Trill in the nest prepared for her in a drained fountain.
For the first time, the WeavePasha stood. He met Mattias halfway across the courtyard, and bowed to him, though the ranger did not return the act. “Mattias Farseer,” he said. “Oldest friend of my old friend. You are welcome here, as ever.”
Mattias nodded. “El Jhotos,” he said, and that was apparently all the greeting he planned to make. “Shan tells me Corvus has already disappeared. Will he return today, or will Trill continue to work her way through your kitchener’s goat herd?”
The WeavePasha was unflappable. “I have many goats. Enough even for that one’s hunger. And look here at your friends, so politely seeing to their own appetites.” Cephas noticed the wizard had avoided answering Mattias’s question about Corvus.
He noticed, too, that the ranger walked past the WeavePasha without looking the man in the face. Cephas judged them to be roughly the same age, though the WeavePasha’s back was straight and he was more heavily muscled than the wiry ranger. Their skin tones differed as well, with the WeavePasha having the same olive skin as the freedmen of the mote and Mattias’s being only a shade or two darker than the white face paint used in the circus.
But for all their differences, there was something they shared, some ineffable quality Cephas could not quite put his finger on. He could not say why, but he felt sure that if he had ever gone onto Azad’s canvas and found one of these men waiting for him, he would have been facing his last opponent.
With a sigh, Mattias settled down next to Tobin and leaned his canes against the table. The goliath made one of his attempts at a whisper.
“Corvus says we’re to call him WeavePasha. And it will make his grandchildren angry if we do not.”
Mattias shot a sour look at Tobin but did not answer. He drew a dagger from his belt, stabbed a thick slice of spiced beef, and sniffed it before depositing it on the empty plate before him.
“Do not fret, son of stone,” the WeavePasha said to Tobin, returning to his place between Cephas and Ariella. “My grandchildren know there are exceptions granted in certain rare cases.”
The WeavePasha indicated Mattias’s canes. “Those still serve you well, I trust? My vizars have written monographs about their making. They say they’re among my finest work.”
Mattias discovered the straw stuck in his hair. He pulled it out and inserted it in a bowl of bright green jelly, where it stood straight up, like a lone tree on a plain of quivering mint. “They were a present from Corvus. It seemed impolite to ask where he got them. Usually, it’s safe to assume any gift he gives is valuable, and that he did not pay the full asking price. If he paid anything at all.”