Casket of Souls

finest swordsmen she knows, though,” Elani replied. “Perhaps you will give me a match.”
    “I am yours to command.” Seregil hoped the invitation came soon, as he doubted Phoria would welcome his presence or Alec’s on the palace grounds after her return, much less contact with her niece.
    “She will prove quite an opponent for you, Seregil,” Reltheus said. “After all, she’s been trained by the queen.”
    “I’m no warrior, as you will soon attest,” Seregil said with a laugh, playing the fop. “I’m sure I wouldn’t last half an hour on a battlefield.”
    Talk turned back to the war after that. Seregil glanced now and then at the actor, who sat at the back table with the poetess. To most eyes the man would have appeared to be politely concealing growing boredom as he toyed absently with the expensive pearl bauble hanging from his ear, but his lazy gaze was never quite at rest.
    A man of no account, but one who pays attention
, Seregil thought, once again feeling a certain kinship with him.
* * *
    It was not yet midnight when Alaya bid farewell to her guests. As they were waiting for their horses to be brought around, Seregil turned to Atre. “You were absolutely wonderful.”
    “My lord, it was nothing, but I am glad to have been of service,” Atre replied modestly, though he was clearly pleased.
    “Come have a drink with us to finish off the evening. There’s a decent tavern in the next street.”
    “Of course, my lord!”
    The Mermaid was a luxurious establishment patronized by the nobles of the area. In addition to excellent wines and ales, it also had small private rooms available off the main chamber. Seregil gave the doorkeeper gold and he led them to one of these, a pretty little room with velvet couches arranged around a common wine table and murals of the amorous doings of mermaids on the walls between blue velvet hangings. A serving boy soon appeared.
    “Do you have any
turab
tonight, Yustin?” Seregil inquired.
    “We just got a cask in, my lord. It hasn’t even been tapped yet.”
    “Excellent. Turab it is.”
    “What is that, my lord?” asked Atre, settling on the couch across from the one Seregil shared with Alec.
    “Ale from my native land. Very rare and it doesn’t come cheaply these days.” Seregil unbuckled his sword and shrugged out of his heavy embroidered coat. “Do make yourself comfortable, Atre.” He took a lace handkerchief from his sleeve and patted his brow and upper lip. “It’s too warm to stand on ceremony any longer.”
    “For what you paid, you’d think they’d at least have given us the room with the window,” Alec complained, following Seregil’s lead as he took off his own sword and coat.
    “Thank you.” Atre undid the silver buttons of his coat to reveal a shirt of fine embroidered linen that probably cost more than Seregil’s and Alec’s put together.
    “You have the most exquisite taste in dress, Master Atre. You must steer me to your tailor,” Seregil noted. “Our venture in Gannet Lane seems to be playing out quite well for you.”
    Atre’s smile faltered. “My lord, if you think I am taking more than my share—”
    “Nothing of the sort. I was simply complimenting your wardrobe. I’m sure your accounts are all in order. But let’s not spoil the evening talking of such things.”
    The boy returned with a tray of colorfully glazed clay mugs topped with golden foam, and a platter of fine cheeses, grapes, and sliced apples.
    Lifting his flagon, Seregil said, “To the queen, may the Four protect her.”
    Alec and Atre joined the toast and took their first drink.
    Atre licked his lips appreciatively. “That’s very good!”
    “And they serve it properly here. Metal cups dull the flavor.”
    “I should like to hear more of your homeland sometime, my lord.”
    “A beautiful place!” Seregil sighed, staring pensively down into his mug. “So much more civilized than here. Your company would do very well in Virésse.”
    “Is that a city there?”
    Seregil smiled. “Yes, and a grand one. Virésse rivals Rhíminee itself, a thriving seaport and city. The folk there have more of a taste for things foreign than most of the clans.”
    Atre sipped his turab. “Perhaps I’ll see it one day for myself. Tell me, my lord, if it’s not too personal, but is it true that Aurënfaie can live to be five hundred years old?”
    “Many do.”
    The actor shook his head, smiling. “So much life. So much time! How many people you must