a longshoreman in coral livery. After the bard’s tale, he thrust some fancy paper our way and informed both of us that we were invited to join the pelenaut at the Nentian embassy in town for dinner.
“You’re expected to attend. Formal dress if you can manage it,” the longshoreman said.
The invitation promised a “rare dining experience” and varied company.
“How is this possible?” I asked. “The pelenaut expelled the Nentian ambassador and his staff four days ago. They’re on a ship heading for Fandlin.”
“This isn’t hosted by the ambassador. These are some fat yaks from Ar Balesh who paid the Raelechs to take them over the Poet’s Range since they couldn’t go through the tunnel.”
“Who are they?”
The longshoreman shrugged. “Rich fat yaks. Not diplomats. That’s all I know. Except they just got here. So they wouldn’t have heard anything about that murdering viceroy with the diseased tadpole hose.”
I caught Fintan’s eyes. “Could be fun.”
“Could be heinous. Why do I have to go?”
“Pelenaut Röllend wants your perfect recall. But he may also need your language skills. We’re not sure how many of them speak Brynt, and the pelenaut does not speak Nentian.”
“Well, I want someone to taste everything first and see if they die.”
The longshoreman grinned. “That’s being taken care of. The entire preparation will be supervised. And there will be hygienists in attendance, of course.”
We arrived punctually, which turned out to be early. Four Nentian merchants, dressed in their floofy and poufy best, welcomed us and were delighted that the bard could speak Nentian. They could hardly wait to put drinks in our hands, but Fintan protested that he’d best wait until the rest of the party arrived. He relayed to me their names and what their particular business was, but then much of the talk swirled around me like thin word soup and I didn’t have a spoon to enjoy it.
The merchants were entertaining at least. Jovial, ebullient types, lacking the restraint of diplomats and projecting a sincere rather than a feigned warmth. None of them resembled a fat yak, but they did appear to be rich. Poudresh Marekh was the shortest of the lot and had taken the trouble to grow a mustache that spread to his sideburns, leaving his chin bare. He represented a collective of Nentian llama ranchers and sold everything from their curly wool to combs carved from their hooves. Ghurang Bokh was quite clearly into tanning and leathers of all kinds, and he was the sort to wear his products as a walking advertisement. Even his hair was plaited and run through broad tooled leather circles fastened with a wooden pin. Subodh Ramala was an older man, comfortable with his jowls and wattled neck and perhaps the most tense of the lot despite the smile pasted onto his face. He was a distributor for smoked and cured Nentian meats such as chaktu, khern, and even borchatta. The last merchant was tallest of the lot and had grown a scraggly goatee on his chin in an attempt to hide the apple in his throat. Fintan said he was “a purveyor of fine footwear—a bootmonger, if you will,” and his name was Jahm Joumeloh Jeikhs.
“He gave you three names?”
“He did. Said it helped people not blessed with perfect recall remember him.”
“The boots help, too, no doubt,” I said, for they were undeniably rich, the uppers sparkling with mosaics of inlaid semiprecious stones. “Why are they here and so anxious to meet the pelenaut?”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
And we didn’t get to, at least right then, for the pelenaut arrived with his entourage, and the introductions could begin anew. He had three hygienists with him, and apparently another had been in the kitchen all day with a couple of mariners and longshoremen as the food was being prepared. The three newly arrived ones immediately set about checking the liquors for poisons, and once they declared them safe, everyone relaxed a bit. The pelenaut proposed a toast to our distant friends the Nentians, and no sooner had we drunk than a longshoreman announced that dinner was ready and we moved from the parlor into the embassy’s dining room.
Platters of Nentian charcuterie and sliced rounds of chaktu cheese waited there, thanks to Subodh Ramala, but I was far more excited to see the Brynt foods spread out there: some meats and vegetables I hadn’t seen in some time—or, indeed, ever. There was an entire scurry of roasted meat squirrels, for example. Hunting them must have been extraordinarily dangerous. There was also