Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [132]
Eventually they reached a high-ceilinged chamber dominated by a U-shaped table large enough to seat a hundred people. At the far end a dozen anxious figures awaited their arrival. Dazzling tropicals swam freely through the air, unconstrained by netting or other barriers. As the room was devoid of windows, there was no need to place internal restrictions on their movement.
The far end of the table had been set with fine china and silver. Platters had hastily been piled high with the best the palace’s kitchens had to offer. Simna’s mouth began to water, and Ahlitah licked his lips at the sight of so much meat, even if it had been badly damaged by treatment with fire.
A tall, elegant man with a slightly hooked nose and thinning blond hair that was gray only at the temples rose to greet them, unable to wait for the travelers to make the long walk from the main doorway to the far end of the table. Much to Simna’s chagrin, he ignored the swordsman and halted directly in front of Ehomba. His voice was very deep and resonant for one so slim.
“They told me you were dressed like barbarians, but I find your costume in its own way as courtly as my own. As for its imperfections of appearance, and yours, they are excused by the difficulties and distance you have had to deal with in your long journey here.” Stepping aside, he gestured expansively at the table. “Welcome! Welcome to Laconda North. Rest, eat, drink—and tell me what you know of my son. My only son.”
While the two humans were seated close to the head of the table, room was made for Ahlitah and Hunkapa at the far opposite end. Neither the shaggy mountain dweller nor the big cat felt in the least left out of the ensuing conversation. The litah had no interest in the yapping discourse of humans, and Hunkapa Aub would not have been able to follow it clearly anyway.
The food was wonderfully filling and the wine excellent. Trembling servitors even prevailed upon the cat to try a little of the latter, stammering that it was traditional and to refuse to do so would be to insult the hospitality of the house of Beckwith. Ahlitah magnanimously consented to lap up a bowl of the dark purple fluid. The attendants had less difficulty persuading Hunkapa to do likewise.
At the head of the table Ehomba and Simna displayed a deportment more refined than their attire as they enjoyed the best meal they had partaken of in many a day. Ehomba had always been a relaxed eater, and Simna revealed a surprising knowledge of manners more suited to cultivated surroundings than he had hitherto exhibited in their travels together.
“Not much point in trying to use a napkin when there’s none to be had,” he explained in response to the herdsman’s murmured compliment. “Same goes for utensils. Fingers or forks, I’m equally at home with either of ’em.” He sipped wine from a silver chalice with the grace and delicacy of a pit bull crocheting lace.
Seated next to the Count was a woman only slightly younger than himself who had spent much of the meal sobbing softly into a succession of silk handkerchiefs as everyone listened closely to Ehomba’s story. When he at last came to the end of the tale of how he had encountered her son, she rose and excused herself from the table.
“My wife,” Bewaryn Beckwith explained. “She has done little else these past months save pray for our son’s safe return.”
“I am sorry I had to be the one to bring you such bad news.” Ehomba fingered his nearly empty chalice, gazing at the bas-reliefs on the metal of men pulling fish from the canals and from the sky of Laconda with entirely different kinds of nets. He was suddenly