Kings of the North - Elizabeth Moon [46]
“Sire.” As he stood, they all stood.
“And don’t forget, we ride to hunt this morning. With so many visitors, we must have game.” He saw the looks they gave one another. Huntsmen could provide game—did, during the closed season—but could not accomplish his larger aim: reconciling humans and elves to one another. Even at informal breakfasts, and more in the formal councils, elves and humans were proving a difficult team to harness. The euphoria of finding a suitable king and crowning him had evaporated since his coronation, and years of distrust and bickering had formed habits he must, somehow, break.
By noon, Kieri was ready to smack heads together. His hope that good sport would overcome prejudice had proven too optimistic. The two groups of nobles, elves and men, mingled only when his eye was on them, and then only formally. When the red-and-black hounds scented game, the pale hounds were called off by the elven huntsman on the grounds that it was not the proper day for scenting: this was a day for gaze hunting only. They had said nothing about that upon setting out, and from their expressions were looking for an excuse to resent any questions he might ask. He did not ask.
When the pale hounds took off shortly after that, the red-and-black hounds lay down instead of following. Kieri whirled to see the repeated signal by their huntsman.
“Whyfor?” Humans might resent his questions, but not so lethally as the elves.
“The pale hounds riot, my lord. My Cherry gave no tongue. I would not have them taught bad manners.”
“They saw something …”
“So they say.” The look the huntsman flashed toward the elf nobles who waited politely for the king to lead the chase was poisonous. “No proper hound can both scent and gaze.”
“Bide here, then, until I return,” Kieri said. The huntsman opened his mouth, but the look Kieri gave him shut it again. Kieri lifted his reins. “Come, gentlefolk,” he said in the pleasantest tone he could manage, and Oak broke to a gallop. Behind him, the soft thunder of hooves indicated that they’d all followed. They’d better, he thought. He would deal with the huntsman later.
Still, after the first stag fell to his arrow and the hunt settled to business, he felt it had not been a useless endeavor. Both packs of hounds ended up working together; some of the men and elves exchanged near-friendly banter along with compliments on a good shot or a handsome mount. The hunting party returned in late afternoon, followed by the pack ponies laden with enough game for what he was already calling—in his own mind only—“A Feast of Princesses.”
What mattered more than princesses were the two packs of hounds now trotting along side by side, the set of their ears and tails suggesting the kind of cooperation he’d hoped for. He glanced around. Though the bulk of the elves still rode to the left, the heart-side, and the bulk of the men still rode to the right, the sword-side, he saw man and elf chatting peaceably in the middle, both individuals and small groups. He hoped his father and sister would have approved.
Once back at the palace, he was immediately besieged by the Pargunese princess’s guardian, a sour-faced woman who declared herself Countess Settik. Complaint after complaint, starting with the baths.
“Barbaric,” she said. “Tubs, as if we were piles of dirty clothes! And so small. And dirty bits of weed thrown in!”
“Herbs,” Kieri said. “To scent the water.”
“At home,” she said, “we have proper baths. We don’t have to climb up steps and into cramped little tubs—we step down into heated pools where the water moves and is always fresh. It is an insult to guests to make them use what is nothing more than an oversized bucket. You must grant us the use of your bath. If you are ashamed to be seen as the gods made you, we can