Transformation (Rai Kirah) by Carol Berg Read Free Book Online Page B

enemies could share a well peaceably on one day, even while planning to slaughter each other on the battlefield the next. Guesting ...
    The great double doors behind the dais were thrown open and a line of fur-clad men—all wearing the orange-striped silk head scarf of the House of Mezzrah—began to file in and take places at the head table. They were glowering suspiciously, but seemed to relax at the sight of the table, the other chattering guests, and the feasting dishes being carried in by a parade of female slaves. They didn’t know. These powerful, ruthless warriors had no idea that their kinsman’s body hung lifeless and freezing in the public square of Capharna, executed less than an hour past by the smiling, red-haired Prince who graciously followed them through the doors, honoring each man with his special attentions. If they drank only water, they would not betray themselves, but the moment they ate Aleksander’s meat or drank his wine, they would become his guest-friends, all past disputes, all grievances settled and forgotten ... whether they knew of them or not. They could not take revenge for the hanging without betraying a thousand years of Derzhi tradition, because they would have shared Aleksander’s table after the murder was done.
    Breathless with astonishment at the Prince’s brazen stroke—and the enormity of the risk he had taken—I took my place at the back of the table and helped arrange cushions and swords and boots and cloaks until the guests were as comfortable as they could be in Prince Aleksander’s house. The sourest of all of them was Lord Barach, Vanye’s father, his gray braid hanging well below his bare shoulder, who sat in the place farthest from the Prince. From the look of him, he was there only at his House elders’ command.
    It was time to put aside my distracting speculations lest I be noticed. Derzhi nobles had been known to cut off a slave’s fingers or scald his hands in boiling tea if food was dropped or spilled or improperly served. Carefully I filled the crystal wine goblets and doled out the hot flat loaves of herbed bread, then offered the platters of succulent roast lamb and savory brown-crusted pork. There were fruits to be sliced or peeled, pickled eggs, sugared dates, and tiny salted fish to be laid out for those who wanted them. Nazrheel, the bitter tea, to be poured. More wine. Zeroun’s lessons and those of other forgotten teachers repeated themselves continually in my head—the sum of a slave’s scholarship.
    Always kneel just behind. Never allow your body to touch the guest. Always offer to the Prince first. If he points at it or nods his head—the gesture can be so slight as to be almost undetectable—give the taster, the shivering slave who sits in the shadows behind him, a portion first, then arrange the remainder on the Prince’s plate. Do not breathe while serving the Prince, lest your breath offend him at dinner. Never let the guests run out of meat, lest the Prince appear ungenerous. Never let them run out of nazrheel, as this is seen as a bad omen. The gray-haired lord has his knife across his plate. He is in the middle of the ephrail, the purification fast. No meat, cheese, or eggs—nothing from a beast can cross his lips. No wine or spirits. Only fruit and tea. When the Prince is finished, nothing more must be served to any guest. The hand washing must be done before....
    When would they hear of it? When would they know how they had been tricked? What would they do? When would they understand why one cushion, the seat at the far-left end of the table, remained vacant? Sixty witnesses to their guesting, too many to kill to remedy their mistake. Even Lord Barach had eaten and drunk.
    “Is there no mead or brandy to be had in Prince Aleksander’s household?” asked the slender man in dark purple who sat just to the Prince’s left. “I prefer a sweeter drink to ward off the night’s chill.”
    “Of course, my lord,” I said quietly, then