CHAPTER 11
“Are you really a wizard?” Alorria asked in her oddly lilting Ethsharitic, leaning over the table.
Tobas smiled. “Yes, I am.”
“Could you show me a magic spell? Please?”
Tobas noticed that he could smell her hair and that he liked the scent very much. She seemed a very agreeable person.
“Oh, I suppose so,” he said, drawing his athame and reaching into his pouch for his vial of brimstone. He looked around for a target and spotted a fat peach sitting atop a convenient bowl of fruit. “Watch,” he said as he transferred the ripe fruit to an empty pewter plate.
Alorria watched as he made the single simple gesture; the fruit burst into flames with a satisfying sizzle as the dew burned off the fuzz. It was too moist to burn very well; the flames died down quickly, but continued to hiss and smolder until he doused the peach with a sprinkle of rosewater from a finger bowl.
“Ooooh!” Alorria said, and a few seats over Tinira applauded. Tobas smiled and tried to look modest. He had never considered Thrindle’s Combustion much of a spell, but to people who had never seen wizardry, it seemed impressive enough. He remembered old Roggit, ancient and feeble as he was, casually drawing glowing runes in the air with a fingertip, or walking calmly up a nonexistent staircase to repair the roof thatch; the Combustion appeared depressingly trivial next to such feats.
“A pretty little trick,” one of the princes nearby remarked, his words almost incomprehensible with his barbaric accent. “But the dragon has his own fire; what use will your magics be against that, Ethsharite?”
Tobas, worried about exactly that, dodged the question, replying, “I am no Ethsharite.” He noted mentally that everyone seemed to agree that the local dragon was a fire breather, which did not bode well.
“You can tell from his accent he’s not Ethsharitic,” Arden remarked. “He speaks the language very well, though.”
“Oh?” The prince looked at Tobas with new interest. “Did you not arrive with the party from Ethshar of the Spices?”
“Yes, but I was only visiting Ethshar; my home lies farther west.”
“Ah! Tintallion, perhaps?” someone farther up the table asked.
“No. My homeland has no name.” That was more or less the truth. The Free Lands of the Coast was more of a description than a name in the usual sense, and it had become apparent that no one outside the Free Lands used that term. Tobas had no idea what outsiders did call the place, Captain Istram had referred to “the Pirate Towns”, but Tobas was not sure what that included.
That answer seemed to satisfy his audience, even to impress them somewhat. Tobas realized he was building up an air of mystery about himself; but, looking into Alorria’s fascinated eyes, he could see nothing wrong with that.
He was beginning to think seriously about ways he might manage to get into the successful dragon-slaying party; Alorria was quite a temptation, aside from the money. She looked fifteen, maybe sixteen, he decided, just a little younger than himself.
None of the other princesses was undesirable, either, not even the oldest, Falissa, who was, as best Tobas could judge, in her midtwenties.
The servants were clearing away the dishes; a footman hesitated as he reached out for the plate that held the smoldering peach. “It’s safe,” Tobas assured him.
Someone thoughtfully translated that into Dwomoritic; the footman bowed acknowledgment and removed the unsightly remains.
Tobas turned back to Alorria. “You speak Ethsharitic very well,” he said.
“Thank you,” she replied. “Daddy thought it was important that we all learn it. Sellatha refused, she’s just not very good with languages, but I thought it was fun.”
“Do you speak any other tongues?”
“Oh, yes! Gellian, Amorite, Vectamonic, and, don’t tell Daddy, he thinks it’s common, I’ve picked up a little Trader’s Tongue.”
“That’s quite impressive.”
“What about you? Is Ethsharitic your native speech?”
“Yes, it is; I’m afraid Ethsharitic is... ah... the only human tongue I know.”
“Oh!” she said.
Tobas felt a little guilty about deceiving the girl by accenting “human” as he had, but the wave of adulation she poured over him drowned that out quite effectively.
Just then someone at the high table called out something in Dwomoritic, and the buzz of conversation died as everyone’s attention turned in that direction.
The king rose and made a short speech in Dwomoritic. Tobas resolved to learn the language as soon as he could — but he would hardly have time, if in four days he was to be out in the mountains hunting dragons.
The speech ended, and Tobas joined in the polite applause. Immediately, the guests arose, and the dinner party broke up. He was amazed at the speed at which the gathering dissipated and wondered where the princesses, in particular, had vanished to.
He also wondered where he was expected to go.
The Ethsharites, he noticed, were similarly confused, lingering in the dining halls.
Just as he was deciding simply to wander off and explore the castle, a robed official appeared, a tall, thin man in late middle age.
“Gentlemen... and lady,” he said, belatedly noticing Azraya, “I am the Lord Chamberlain and I will show you to your rooms, if you will be so kind as to accompany me.” He spoke slowly and stiffly, his phrasing and pronunciation a little old-fashioned, but his accent was very good.
Tobas and the others followed obediently. Four were dropped off as two pairs in tiny, bare stone rooms, and three more were given a slightly larger room. Azraya got a garret to herself and a cot instead of a straw pallet, and, finally, Tobas found himself escorted up a steep, winding staircase to a high-ceilinged, narrow, drafty room atop a tower.
Looking about in the light of the chamberlain’s lantern, Tobas spotted an old lamp in a niche on the wall; he lit it with a flick of athame and brimstone, revealing the little chamber to be furnished with a small featherbed, a blanket, and a pile of rusty debris.
“Thank you,” he said as the chamberlain turned to go. “But why do I have my own room, and why up here?”
The chamberlain turned back. “It was our understanding that this was customary for a wizard’s accommodations,” he said politely. “If there is any difficulty...”
“Oh, no,” Tobas assured him hastily. “It’s fine, thank you.”
The chamberlain bowed and departed, leaving Tobas shivering slightly. The month was still Summersend, but he was chilled nonetheless; the weather seemed to have turned unseasonably cool as the caravan climbed from the hills into the mountains, and the wind that muttered around this tower room felt downright cold.
He looked about, shrugged, and lay down, wrapping himself tightly in the heavy woolen blanket.
This was not how he had pictured himself spending the night; the warmth and luxury of the dinner had misled him, but undoubtedly the castle was jammed to the rafters, with no beds to spare. He knew he had no right to complain, since most of the adventurers had only straw whereas he had a featherbed, but he could not help wondering if the other rooms were as drafty as this one. As a great magician, he supposed he was expected not to mind the cold and to have spells to keep himself warm.
As a matter of fact, he did have a spell that would keep him warm, but he was afraid he might burn down the castle if he used it on the rubbish pile and then fell asleep.