a moment later with a bottle and a glass. “Here you go, Smith. This cost an awful lot of money. You’re sure to like it.” He poured a glass and offered it to Smith with a deep bow.
“Thank you,” said Smith. Behind him he heard Balnshik slam and bolt the great doors, and realized that it was far too late to run. What the hell, he thought, and sampled the wine. It was sparkling and tasted like stars. Lord Ermenwyr drank from the bottle.
“Mm, good. Come on, let’s dine,” he said, and pulled Smith into the next room.
“Oh,” said Smith, starting forward involuntarily. He hadn’t eaten in hours and was abruptly aware of it at the sight of the feast laid out on the table. There were a couple of huge roasts, a hen, oysters, a whole baked fish in wine sauce, various covered tureens, hot breads and butter in several colors, more bottles, a pyramid of ripe fruit and another of cream buns and meringues, as well as a large cake sulking in a pool of liqueur. As is usual for feasts, candied kumquats and cherries decorated nearly everything.
“Room service,” said Lord Ermenwyr dreamily, lifting the lid on a tureen. “Floating islands! My favorite. Don’t stand on ceremony, Smith.” He plunged his face into the tureen, only to be collared and dragged back by Balnshik.
“Sit down and put your napkin on, Master,” she ordered. “Look at you, you’ve got meringue in your beard. Simply disgusting. Please be seated, dear Smith, and pay no attention to his lordship. I shall serve.”
And this she proceeded to do, carving the meats and arranging a plate for Smith with the best of everything, the most prime cuts, the most melting fruit, ignoring Lord Ermenwyr as he happily drank custard sauce straight out of the tureen. Then she loaded a plate for herself, filled Smith’s wineglass and her own, and sat down tête-à-tête with him as though they were alone.
“You followed that doctor’s advice, I note, and were detoxified,” Balnshik said, shaking out her napkin. “Quite a good idea. It’s a nasty poison on those little darts, just like its inventors. Devious. Lurking. It can lie dormant in the flesh, even if one is treated with an antidote, and leap out into the blood unexpectedly later on.”
“So—excuse me for asking, but—you really are a nurse, then,” Smith said, trying not speak with his mouth full.
“Well, I know a great deal about death,” she admitted. “That helps, you see.”
“Hey! He can’t pay no attention to me,” protested Lord Ermenwyr belatedly, lifting his dripping beard from the tureen. “He’s my guest.”
“It’s the other way around, darling,” Balnshik informed him. “You’re supposed to pay attention to him.”
“Oh. How’s the food, Caravan Master?”
“Wonderful, thanks,” said Smith earnestly.
“You should see what we have for the orgy afterward.” Lord Ermenwyr giggled. “Salesh Primo Pinkweed. What fun!” He stuck his head in the tureen again.
“I really must apologize for his lordship’s manners,” said Balnshik. “It’s a reaction. The journey was quite stressful for him.”
“I guess we’re all lucky to be alive,” said Smith. “Have those people tried to get him before?”
“Mm.” She nodded, taking a sip of her wine. “But seldom so persistently. His lord father had no idea they’d have the audacity to make an attempt within sight of his own house. There are probably going to be some rather horrible reprisals. Whatever my master may say, his lord father loves him.”
“Are the rest of the children like that?”
“No, fortunately.” Balnshik looked amused. “My master is unique.”
Lord Ermenwyr fell off his chair with a crash.
“Excuse me a moment, won’t you?” Balnshik requested, and, rising, she fetched a cushion and tucked it under the lordling’s head where he lay unconscious. She took the tureen from his hands and set it back on the table.
“Is he all right?” asked Smith, alarmed.
“It’s just the sugar hitting the drugs. He’ll sleep for half an hour, then he’ll be up and bouncing around again,” Balnshik said offhandedly, sitting back down and picking up a chop bone, which she proceeded to gnaw with unsettling efficiency. Smith noticed that there was nothing on her plate but meat, all of it blood-rare.
“Uh … I don’t mean to be rude, but… young as he is, and sick as he is, why was he sent to Troon in the first place?” Smith inquired. “Shouldn’t he be kept at home?”
Balnshik rolled her eyes.
“A joke got out of hand. One of his brothers and several of his sisters tried to kill him.