Princess Nissitha’s expression plainly said that he couldn’t tell her anything at all, but Queen Ashassa asked, her tone sincerely interested, “Is it true the city of Ethshar is so large that you can’t see from one end to the other?”
“Well,” Sterren said, considering the question, “It would depend where you were standing. I suppose from atop the... the lord’s castle you could see the city walls on both sides. But mostly, it’s true.”
The overlord’s palace was not really a castle, but his limited Semman vocabulary did not include a more suitable term.
The queen asked more questions, and Sterren did his best to answer; gradually, as the topics ranged from the city’s size to the recently-begun overlordship of Azrad VII to wizards and other magicians, Sterren found himself relaxing and enjoying the conversation. Queen Ashassa, despite her royal title, was a pleasant enough person.
Princess Nissitha never said a word and eventually rose and glided haughtily away.
After a time, a servant entered quietly and announced that dinner was ready. Queen Ashassa rose, and for a moment Sterren thought she was going to offer her arm, to be escorted in to the meal, as he had seen ladies do in Ethshar.
Either Semman etiquette was different, or the difference in their stations as queen and warlord was too great; Ashassa marched off on her own, leaving Sterren to follow in her wake.
The dining hall, Sterren discovered, was the throne room where the king had first received him. Trestle tables had been set up and covered with white linen, and chairs brought from somewhere to line either side. A smaller table stood upon the dais, crossing the T, with a dozen chairs behind it.
As yet, almost all the chairs were still unoccupied.
Queen Ashassa took a seat at the high-table, near the center; Sterren, recognizing that the high table was a position of special honor, guessed that it was reserved for the royal family and headed for a seat at one of the long tables.
A servant caught his elbow.
“My lord,” the servant whispered, “you sit on the king’s right.” He pointed to the high table, indicating a chair two spaces over from the queen’s.
Sterren froze, suddenly overcome with fright at the idea of sitting up there and eating in full view of dozens, maybe hundreds of people, in his ill-fitting clothes, with his simple Ethsharitic manners that were surely foreign to these barbarians with their noble trappings. The servant pushed gently at his elbow, and, reluctantly, he allowed himself to be prodded forward, up the steps onto the dais.
He seized control of his dignity, once he reached the top step, and marched on to his place unaided.
The princesses, he saw, were taking their seats on the queen’s side of the table, to his left. To his right, a young man of roughly his own age and with a resemblance to the royal family took a seat two places over. Another, perhaps a year younger, took the seat just beyond that. A mutter of conversation filled the room, but Sterren, with his still-poor grasp of Semmat, could not catch any of it.
Then the king entered, followed by an entourage of soldiers and courtiers. Silence fell. Everyone who had been seated rose; Sterren followed suit a bit tardily. The courtiers gradually peeled away from the group and found seats at the long table as the party progressed up the length of the hall, but they remained standing by their chairs.
King Phenvel reached his place and sat, and his guards took up unobtrusive positions along the back wall. He nodded politely, and the rest of the company sat as well. That was the sign for the meal to begin, and the low mutter of conversation resumed. It quickly built up to considerably more than a mutter, punctuated by the occasional clash of cutlery as diners sorted out their table-ware.
The knives and forks appeared to be silver, and Sterren wondered what they were worth.
As yet, he had nothing to eat with them, so he let his own implements lie undisturbed on the tablecloth.
The noise level was roughly that of a busy but well-behaved tavern, and Sterren found that somewhat startling. He had somehow expected a roomful of aristocrats to eat in dignified silence.
That, he realized, was foolish. People were people, regardless of titles.
Other people continued to drift in and take seats as the king exchanged a few pleasantries with the queen. Sterren looked about the room, feeling a little lost.
A middle-aged man sat down to Sterren’s right and smiled at him.
“Hello,” he said, “I’m Algarven, Eighth Kai’takhe.”
“Eighth what?” Sterren asked before he could catch himself.
“Kai’takhe... Oh, you don’t know the word, do you? Let me think.” The fellow blinked twice, frowning, then smiled again, and said, in Ethsharitic, “Steward!”
“You speak Ethsharitic?” Sterren asked eagerly, in Ethsharitic.
Algarven smiled. “No, no,” he said in Semmat, “just a few words.”
“Oh,” Sterren said, disappointed.
He suddenly remembered his manners and introduced himself.
“Oh, we all know who you are,” Algarven assured him.
Somehow, Sterren did not find that reassuring.
“Here, let me tell you who everybody is,” Algarven said. He began pointing.
“You know the king and queen, of course. There to the queen’s left is the treasurer, Adrean.”
Adrean was a plump man of perhaps fifty, making him a decade or so older than Algarven; he wore a heavy gold chain around his neck, and his tunic was an unusually ugly shade of purple.
“Beyond him, that’s old Inria, our Trader. If she were a little younger, she’d have been the one to go and fetch you.”
Inria was an ancient, toothless hag, wearing black velvet and grinning out at the inhabitants of the hall.
“And then there are the three princesses, Nissitha, Shirrin, and Lura...”
“I met them this afternoon,” Sterren remarked.
“Ah! And did you meet the princes?” Algarven turned to the other side and gestured at the four youths there, ranging in age from a young man of perhaps eighteen to a boy of ten or eleven.
“No,” Sterren admitted.
“We have here Phenvel the Younger, heir to the throne, and his brothers Tendel, Rayel, and Dereth.”
“A fine family,” Sterren said.
“The king certainly hasn’t shirked his duty in providing heirs, has he?” Algarven agreed. “And his father didn’t, either; down there at the first table, those three on the end here, that’s the elder Prince Rayel, and Prince Alder, the king’s brothers, and his sister. Princess Sanda. Another brother, the elder Tendel, got himself killed seven years ago in a duel.”
“Ah.” Sterren could not think of anything further to say and was saved from the necessity of inventing something by the sudden arrival of servants bearing trays of food, breads, fruits, meats, and cheeses.
From then on, the meal was simply another meal; Sterren forgot his exposed position on the dais, forgot his improvised garb, and set about filling his belly.
Between bites he continued to make polite conversation with both the steward Algarven and King Phenvel himself, but this largely consisted of simple questions and required little thought. Any time he found himself at a loss for words he simply reached for another orange or buttered a roll.
By the end of the meal he felt fairly comfortable with the royal family and his fellow lords. They were, after all, just people, despite the titles, and he was one of them.
When he reflected on this, he was amazed at himself for accepting his situation so readily.