Olga was sitting very solemnly at the table opposite. Remembering how excited she had been at her first grown-up feast, Ezratah winked at her. Olga giggled and wriggled in her chair. She was a sweet little girl, a melded child, with the pale skin and fair-hair of her Mirayan father and the green eyes and high cheekbones of her Tari mother. In some ways she was a symbol of what Ezratah and the Guardians were trying to achieve here on Yarmar and on the rest of the islands of the Archipelago.
“... an outrageous pollution of pure Mirayan blood with the foul native taint,” muttered a voice beside him. Ezratah’s glow of satisfaction flickered out. Damn Lev Madraga and his stupid friend! Every time Ezratah came to Lamartaine, the Duke’s brother seemed to be making snide remarks to someone about the shortcomings of the Archipelago. If he hated the Archipelago and the natives so much why hadn’t he stayed home in his “infinitely preferable” Miraya? These days Ezratah found it hard to believe that he had once been close friends with the haughty mage. At least it was he, their fellow Mirayan, who was listening to this tripe, not one of the locals. That was why he’d seated himself next to Lev in the first place.
“I can understand the charm of these native women,” said Lev’s friend Neevus, a skinny little man with a fluffy quiff of hair. “She is quite lovely and of course, there is a shortage of pure-blood women. What I don’t understand is why your brother married her? And why make her Duchess?”
Sweet Life! They were running down the Duchess. Again!
“Oh Neevus,” sneered Lev. “These natives are so superstitious and they regard the Tari with such slavish admiration. My brother’s rule has benefited immeasurably from his marriage to the creature. I feel for him, but these are the lengths we Mirayans are forced to go to, now those Tari witches have seized power. It’s the only reason he married the creature, I assure you. And he has to trot her out at these kind of gatherings and let her show herself unveiled to all these vulgar people. It makes these knuckle-headed barbarians feel comfortable.”
Ezratah clenched his fists to stop himself from interjecting. The talk of the Duke marrying the Duchess for political reasons was gross slander. It had been a love match from the start and the Duke and Duchess still seemed to be devoted to each other. Ezratah had told Lev this many times and he always got an infuriating reply and wound up losing his temper. He wasn’t going to risk such a scene on this important night, even to put that stupid Neevus straight. With stern concentration, he fell to spooning soup into his mouth.
After a few minutes his eyes strayed to where the Duchess Jindabyne was talking politely to the bride’s mother. She caught his eye and smiled, almost as if she knew what was going on at his side of the table and she didn’t mind and didn’t think he should either. Ezratah always found Taris’ smiles calming and he felt his annoyance fade to be replaced by the tolerant glow of the life spirit.
He’d always regarded the Duchess as, in part at least, his creation, for he had been instrumental in changing her from the wild, mindblasted creature in witch manacles who had been dumped at Lamartaine ten years before, into the elegant woman well in command of the little magical power she still retained. He had not been able to tutor her in magic for the workings of Tari magic were still a mystery to him. However he had been able to teach her to control the distracting whisperings of the life spirit - whisperings which always filled a Tari mind and which could drive them mad if uncontrolled. Ezratah understood those whisperings, for they filled his mind too, even though he was not a Tari.
The soup had just been removed when a breathless figure rushed through the door, almost knocking over a servant, and came hurrying to the table. The Duke’s youngest son, Serge Madraga, had arrived at last.
“Finally,” muttered Lev Madraga. “No doubt he’s been off dabbling in some native cesspit!”
“Hawking,” replied Ezratah, certain now that he was being baited and determined not to rise to it.
“With his native friends!” Lev gave his nephew a stern look. “No wonder the boy has no polish.”
Ezratah didn’t think anyone else cared about Serge’s lateness. There was nothing wrong with his manners; he was already bowing to the guests and begging them to excuse his tardiness. The Seaganis smiled indulgently as, with a minimum of fuss, he settled down beside the bride-to-be’s brother and fell quickly into talk of hunting. The first course was brought in - roast taldra in honour of their Seagani guests, roast chickens for those like Lev who refused to eat native meats, and a pottage of seasoned vegetables and nuts for those who, like the Duchess and Ezratah, followed the Tari way.
The food laid on the table, the servants began to process out of the room again, but as the door was opened, one of them yelped with surprise and tripped, stumbling into the servant behind him so that both men fell to the ground with a clatter of plates. Two small shapes came racing across the floor.
“Oh no!” cried Serge. “Lexie, Gallant. Heel!”
“Serge!” protested Paulus, while Gideon, burst out laughing. The smaller dog, who had a large piece of meat in its mouth, darted under the table and took cover between its master’s legs. Serge scooped him up, and, with his arms full, struggled out of his chair, while the other dog, an elegant greyhound, jumped around him barking deafeningly. Fortunately, the Seagani, who were not a formal people, were highly entertained.
“Serge!” cried Duke Wolf. “Will you keep your dogs under control!”
“I beg pardon, Sir.” Red-faced, Serge carried the smaller dog to the door, trailed by the noisy greyhound. “My lords and ladies I apologise for this unmannerly intrusion.” He bowed low.
This brought the dog in Serge’s arms closer to the floor, giving the greyhound the opportunity to seize hold of the piece of meat. But the smaller dog, growling furiously, was not about to let go of its prize. A ferocious tug-of-war ensued with Serge desperately exhorting both dogs to let go and behave.
The Seaganis roared with delight, Duke Wolf shouted furiously as he strode towards the chaos, and a sneer settled on Lord Lev’s face.
Lady Jindabyne stood up.
“Heel, Gallant!” she said, in the commanding voice of a mage.
Instantly Gallant let go of the meat and sat neatly down at Serge’s feet.
The Duchess looked at the other dog.
“Drop it, Lexie!”
The meat fell to the ground with a soggy splat.
The Duchess spoke again, this time in Tari. Both animals put back their ears, assuming the shamefaced attitudes of dogs who have offended the pack leader.
“Thank you, my dear!” said Duke Wolf. He reached down and helped up one of the fallen servants.
“Serge, take your dogs away and this time tie them up! Ah, Lord Alain...”
This last remark was addressed to a flustered young man, who had come bursting in at the door, carrying a hawk on his wrist. The tattoo of Nezrhus on his cheek and the torc at his neck, showed him to be a native Seagani of chiefly rank.
“Your Grace, I’m very sorry about the dogs.”
“Lord Alain, you are most welcome in my house,” said Duke Wolf formally. “I’m sure you are not at fault.” He glared at Serge.
Ezratah was conscious that the Seaganis were now watching intently to see how the Duke dealt with Alain. He himself did not feel worried. The Duke always treated all his vassals politely, regardless of their race.
“Perhaps you would be kind enough join us for dinner now you are here,” the Duke continued.
“Thank my lord. I’ll... I’ll just help Lord Serge... um...”
Alain was so flustered that he had forgotten to hood the hawk on his wrist or to hang onto its jesses. Unfortunately, Lev Madraga chose that moment to take a chicken leg from the plate in front of him. The hawk caught sight of the movement and swooped across the room, whisking the chicken leg out of Lev's hand.
Lev squawked