House of Shadows(18)
“Close, close,” answered Miennes, smiling at this refusal to engage. The lord leaned comfortably back in his chair. His eyes, an ice-pale gray, glinted like cold stone as he watched his prey struggle on the hook. But his voice was as warm as his wine, and nearly as sweet. “You do yourself too little credit. For a young man, you have a most educated palate. Tamissen, yes, though from nearer the end of the Third Kesiande’s reign.”
Taudde made a vague gesture indicating polite self-deprecation. An extract of goldenthread would be undetectable in any sweet wine. So would Tincture of Esidde. Did the mages of Lonne know of that decoction? He tried to decide whether there was any trace of tingling or numbness in his lips or tongue. Any sudden flush of cold through his body. He could not detect any such sensations. Yet.
“Of course, both periods boasted hot, dry summers and long, lingering autumns,” commented Miennes, still in that pleasant, mellow voice. “It tastes of autumn, this wine, I think. Rich and golden, apple scented and suggesting the merest hint of smoke.”
Following this lead, Taudde murmured, “You entirely surpass me. I might agree with you about the apples. But I think only because you suggested it to me.”
Mage Ankennes, too, was smiling. Unlike Miennes, the mage did not trouble to disguise the hardness under the smile. “Some men do not care for it. It is too sweet to suit every palate, even as an evening wine.”
“Life holds enough that is bitter,” murmured Lord Miennes, always ready to turn a courtly phrase. “Surely one should cherish the captured warmth of lingering autumns to remember through the long winters. Especially when the spring to come may be troubled.”
Taudde said nothing. Especially when the spring may be troubled, indeed. He knew very well that Lord Miennes expected Kalches to resume its long war with Lirionne immediately after the solstice, when the Treaty of Brenedde at last reached its term. Everyone expected that.
Taudde knew, as few of the people of Lirionne would have believed, that the King of Kalches faced the prospect with resignation rather than bloody-minded enthusiasm. But Seriantes avarice was insatiable, and Geriodde Nerenne ken Seriantes certainly no less ambitious than his ancestors. No king of Kalches could possibly allow the Seriantes Dragon to keep his grip on the lands Lirionne had stolen from Kalches fifteen years ago. Those lands were too close to the heart of Kalches. One could indeed be quite certain that the coming spring would be troubled.
Taudde had expected to return home before the war resumed. He had even been glad to watch the solstice approach at last, except as the turning of the year would interfere with his studies in Lonne. He vividly remembered the field of Brenedde. That battle had ended with his father’s body sprawled loose-limbed in the dirt before the Dragon of Lirionne. He had been a child, then. Too young to try for vengeance. And then the treaty had forced him to set the thought aside for fifteen years. Those years had seemed long to him. Now they were past, and the spring rushed toward them, and he was assuredly not the only Kalchesene who would be grimly satisfied to see the year turn.
Whether Lord Miennes or this mage of his was eager for the coming spring was harder to judge.
“Indeed, the winters in this city are long enough,” Ankennes murmured. The mage glanced out the wide windows to the white clouds shredding against the jagged peaks. Then he turned his attention deliberately back to Taudde. “Though never so long nor so cold as those of… your homeland.”
“What, Miskiannes?” Taudde said, just for something to say.
Both of the other men smiled tolerantly. Neither bothered to state aloud that Taudde was not from Miskiannes. Neither one seemed at all concerned about any threat Taudde might pose to them. Or, evidently, to Lonne.
Miennes sipped more wine and sighed, shaking his head in mock wistfulness. “Every year when the mists come down from the mountains, I wonder why I do not move my establishment south. Yet how could one choose to abandon the civilized sophistication of the Pearl of the West? And, indeed, the cold teaches one to appreciate the warmth. Though, of course,” he added without any change of tone, “as Ankennes said, you would know more of cold than we.”
Taudde did not bother, this time, to deny it. It was too clear denial would not serve.
“Why did you come to Lonne in the first place? From, ah… Miskiannes.”
Taudde lifted his eyebrows. “Does a man need a better reason than desire to see the Pearl of the West?” He paused for a heartbeat. “Does it matter?”
“Not at all,” Miennes said, at the same moment that Ankennes said, “Of course it matters—” The two men glanced at each other. Miennes said, “My friend, I don’t believe one must search over-diligently for reasons a young man from… Miskiannes… might venture to Lonne just in this season. Yes?”