State of Sorrow (Sorrow #1)(29)

Sorrow had to fight to not look at Charon, though she was sure his attention was on the boy’s neck too. On the birthmark everyone knew Mael had.

“And this is Aphora,” Vespus continued, drawing her attention back to him, as the Rhyllian woman bowed her head, folding her hands on the table before her.

“Why is she here?” Charon asked.

“I was the one who discovered Mael.” She spoke directly to Sorrow, in clear, though heavily accented, Rhannish. “Lord Vespus asked me to come so I could give account direct to your father. My brother, Melakis, was there too. He’s outside, watching the door for us.”

Sorrow nodded. But before she could tell Aphora to begin, Vespus clapped his hands together.

“If no one objects, I’d like to order some food. We had an early start today and no time for breakfast, and it seems to me we can talk and eat at the same time. I assume you have time?” he asked Sorrow.

She didn’t think she could eat. Her stomach felt too small and too stone-like for food. Besides, she didn’t want to delay, needing to get to back to Rhannon and see what damage Vespus’s actions had caused. “I’m afraid not. I need to be at the Summer Palace to greet my father,” Sorrow said.

“So we are not to go to Istevar?” Vespus said.

“The Summer Palace is closer, and it’s less dangerous to get there, both for us and my father, given what happened at the bridge. I’ve already sent word asking him to leave Istevar at once. I expect he’s travelling now.” She hoped that was true.

“Then by my reckoning we have time for at least two courses.” Vespus smiled easily. “Don’t worry, Miss Ventaxis, we’ll be there in good order. I shouldn’t think the chancellor will arrive much before nightfall, whereas we are just a couple of hours away. What do you say?”

The boy – Mael – spoke. “We’d be honoured if you would.”

There was nothing to be gained from refusing, she realized. Vespus was right: Harun wouldn’t get to the Summer Palace until much later, and if they stayed it would give them more time to hear Mael’s story. And examine it. She gave a small nod, ignoring the way his face lit up at the gesture.

Vespus beckoned, and the same server as before, silent-footed and lithe, glided to the table. Sorrow tried to listen without looking interested as Vespus ordered.

“Do you want me to translate?” Rasmus leant over and asked.

Sorrow shook her head.

“Are you all right?” His voice was barely above a whisper, impossible for anyone but her to hear. She nodded, but kept her eyes on Vespus, trying to follow the lilting of his words, trying to avoid the stare of the boy beside him.

The weight of his gaze was like a collar around her neck, choking her. He watched her, and her skin burned in response. Her pulse raced, she felt it in her fingertips where they pressed into the smooth wood of the table. Too fast.

When he finally looked away, she studied him from the corner of her eye. He looked so healthy. She’d never seen a Rhannish person look so well. Most everyone she knew had a pale cast to their bronze skin; very few people went out into the sun, unless they worked under it. This boy looked as though he bathed in it, his skin gleaming, like his neat white teeth.

“He’s ordering everything on the menu,” Mael said abruptly, startling her from her thoughts. “I don’t suppose you’ve eaten anything Rhyllian before?”

“Of course she has.” Rasmus answered for her, his tone challenging. “I used to share the food I was sent with her.”

“I was just asking.”

“And now you know.”

“Rasmus…” Vespus broke off from ordering to glare at his son, and Rasmus folded his arms, staring back at him.

“What?”

“Try to show a little courtesy.”

“I was civil. He was the one patronizing her.”

Vespus spat something at his son, something that caused Rasmus’s skin to flush, and even the boy and Aphora looked taken aback. Rasmus abruptly closed his mouth, as the whole table lapsed into strained silence.

Rasmus had taught her Rhyllian, but it had always been conversational – greeting and parting phrases, talking about the weather, food, family members. Rhyllian was less straightforward than Rhannish, no one-word translation for most things – goodbye was “when next we meet I will be blessed”, and mother was “she who grew me beneath her heart”. Sorrow had loved the romance of it, but it made following a conversation between native Rhyllians impossible to anyone who hadn’t been born to it, or spent a lifetime studying it. It reminded her that she and Charon were at every disadvantage at this table.

The mood was broken by the arrival of the food. And Mael had not lied; Vespus really had ordered everything. The surface of the table was covered: bowls of olives, glistening with oil. Spiky leaves from unknown plants were dotted with bright blossoms and drizzled with something dark and sticky-looking, golden bread woven into knots and braids and sprinkled with seeds. She could smell almonds – mazarine, she realized, the sugar-almond paste Rhylla made for celebrations – and a cheese oozing from its rind, pungent and almost-sour. There were pears, tomatoes, plums, figs, dates, flaking pastries dotted with green nuts and dripping syrup.

“Eat,” Vespus insisted, and began to serve himself, Lincel and Aphora following immediately.