woman told Vaelin, moving to the counter to stand with her hands clasped together and head lowered. It took a prolonged interval for the man to take notice of her, repeatedly emerging and disappearing into the steam to fill his pots. A succession of waiters came and went from the counter to convey them to the customers. Like the clientele, they were scrupulous in paying no heed to the foreigners in their midst.
“You’re old,” the man behind the counter said, his voice startling in its stridency, and surprising in his words; they were spoken in perfect Realm Tongue.
He filled another pot, then set the kettle down, bracing his arms on the counter to regard Erlin with a steady gaze. Vaelin found it hard to judge the man’s age. His head was completely bald and his face clean shaven. His bare arms were not broad but were rich in finely honed muscle, scarred here and there with the pale, jagged stripes that told of injuries suffered in combat. Only the faint lines around his eyes and the depth of careful scrutiny they held told Vaelin this was a man with several decades of hard experience at his back.
“My grandfather named you Kho-an Lah,” the man went on. “The ‘Ageless One.’ And now you return to make him a liar.”
“Age comes to us all,” Erlin replied, a tentative smile on his lips. “Even me, old friend.” He gestured at Vaelin. “May I present . . .”
“Vaelin Al Sorna,” the man interrupted. “Tower Lord of the Northern Reaches.” He blinked and focused his piercing scrutiny on Vaelin. “You are very far from home, and not here by the Merchant King’s invitation.”
“Your perception was always a thing of wonder,” Erlin said. Dropping his voice, he stepped closer to the counter. “We have business to discuss, Honoured Pao Len. Business of both a private and lucrative nature.”
Pao Len’s eyes flicked from Erlin to Vaelin and back again. His face remained impassive but Vaelin sensed a reluctance in the slow nod he gave before snapping out a curt command to the woman in Chu-Shin. “The back room. Tea for these others.” He paused and addressed his next words to Vaelin. “They will be killed if they try to leave before our business is concluded.” He was still speaking Chu-Shin, although Vaelin had no notion of how the man knew he could speak it.
“Understood,” he said in a neutral tone. “Wait here,” he told the others as the man disappeared into the misty recesses of the shop.
“And do what?” Nortah enquired.
“Drink tea, brother.” Vaelin followed Erlin as the woman lifted a slat in the counter and gestured for them to enter. “Perhaps you’ll like it.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“I once had a cousin who journeyed to your Realm.” Pao Len sat on a stool at a small round table on which a teapot sat next to three cups. He poured a dark, floral-scented liquid into each cup as he spoke, Vaelin noting how he never spilled the slightest drop. “He stood high in the ranks of the Crimson Band,” Pao Len went on, setting the teapot down, “and was our eyes and ears in your country for many years. Sadly, he was tortured to death some time ago by an agent of your late king, and our reports have been fragmentary ever since.”
He gestured for Vaelin and Erlin to take a seat and sat in silent expectation as they regarded the steaming teacups before them. Erlin lifted his after only a slight hesitation, blowing gently on the liquid before taking a small sip. “Flying Fox,” he said, eyebrows raised in surprised appreciation. “You honour us, Pao. Enjoy this, my lord,” he said as Vaelin sniffed his own cup. “The finest blend of leaves to be found in the Far West. One pound of it would fetch the same weight in silver.”
Reasoning that Erlin wouldn’t have tasted his cup if he suspected poison, Vaelin followed suit. He found the tea pleasing with a slight tingle to the tongue, but not sufficiently remarkable to justify its supposed price. “And yet,” he said to Pao Len as he sipped, “you possess sufficient knowledge to know me by sight, despite the loss of your cousin.”
“A man who has charge of such riches can expect only fame.” Pao Len shifted his gaze to Erlin, speaking on with barely a pause. The Crimson Band, it appeared, had little use for the courtesies of Far Western officialdom. “Why are you old now? When first