The contest drew nearer, and Tal found his anxiety increasing. No matter how much he employed the mind-calming exercises Magnus, Nakor, and Robert had taught him, no matter how much he attempted to divert himself from thinking about the tournament with dice, cards, or lovely company, he found himself constantly haunted by thoughts of the coming contest.
Not even an invitation to the palace, two nights before the tournament was to commence, eased his fixation. He killed hours at a tailor, having the latest in court fashions cut and sewn to fit. It was a gaudy bit of foppery, consisting of a pair of tight trousers, tucked into polished black boots that were absolutely useless for anything practical. They were too low at the calf for riding—the top of the boot would grind the calf to blisters in an hour—and too tall to wear on the march. But they had lovely silver buckles and a red stripe of dyed leather down the side.The trousers were tight to the point of being constricting, but the tailor assured him this was the current fashion at court. He forwent the codpiece that was also said to be the rage. There were things he found too silly to bear, even for the sake of court fashion. The shirt was a work of frippery, being open at the neck and gathered below the breastbone by a series of pearl buttons, with a lace collar and more lace at the sleeves. The jacket was completely decorative—a gold-thread-on-red-brocade monstrosity, designed to be worn on the left arm only, hanging by a golden cord across the right, with pearls sewn at the collar and cuffs. The crowning glory was a hat, a broad-brimmed thing of snow-white felted fur, with a handcrafted silver-wire band, in which a dyed plume had been placed. Tal’s plume was black, so the contrast was dramatic. The tailor assured him the outfit was as fine as any that would be worn at court, but Tal could not help but feel someone had put the man up to this, so that his arrival for his first appearance at court would be greeted with laughter and derision.
But as his carriage arrived at the palace gate on the night of the gala, he could see other young men of the city dressed in equally absurd rigs. He remembered with nostalgia the simple skins and fur jackets his family had worn in the mountains in the winter and going almost naked during the summer heat. As he mounted the steps to the palace, Tal decided that fashion was a conspiracy created by tailors to bilk the nobility out of excess gold. He knew from what he had heard at various social gatherings he had attended in Salador and Roldem that by this time next year everything he wore would be counted out of style, and new fashions would be all the rage.
Tal handed his invitation to the squire responsible for ensuring no uninvited guests appeared in the King’s court. The squire was backed up by a squad of palace guardsmen, who despite being garbed in gaudy red-and-yellow livery looked quite capable of repelling an invasion, let alone removing an unwanted guest. Then a page was assigned to escort him to the main hall. As they walked, the page said, “Sir, tonight the King has decreed there to be no formal seating. Everyone will avail themselves of a buffet.’’
Talon didn’t know the word and had to search his memory for it. “Boo-fay,” he said softly. The boy motioned to the long tables at the side of the hall, heavily burdened with food, and servants moving rapidly through the hall with pitchers of ale and wine, filling cups at request. Everywhere he looked he saw people in colors of riotous hue engaged in conversation, some holding a plate with one hand and eating with the other.
Then it came to him, buffet was a Kingdom word from the Bas-Tyran dialect. And it meant to eat from an open table without sitting. Sometimes you only think you can speak a language, Tal reminded himself silently.
He moved through the crowd, noticing half a dozen or so familiar faces, and those he smiled and bowed to as he made his way to the tables of food. Everything he could imagine dining on was laid out there, from smoked game birds and seasoned eggs to vegetables prepared in every conceivable fashion, from fresh out of the kettle to pickled and spiced, to cheeses and fruits—some expensively out of season—and sweets. He picked up a plate and found it to be lighter than he had expected, and a quick inspection showed him it was some sort of hard ceramic, rather than stone or metal. It had been hand-painted with the royal crest of Roldem, a dolphin leaping from a wave over a star. It was quite impressive.
A voice at his right said, “Yes, it is impressive, isn’t it?’’
Tal turned and saw Quincy de Castle, a merchant from Bas-Tyra with whom he had gambled several times. “Reading minds?” he asked with a smile.
“No,” answered the merchant. “If I could, I wouldn’t have lost as much money to you at cards as I have, Tal. No, I saw you admiring the plate and guessed your reaction.”
“It is quite impressive,” Tal repeated.
“Well, as they say, ‘it’s good to be king.’ It allows one to indulge oneself in all manner of niceties.”