Somewhat to his surprise, the courtiers were not organized at dinner by rank. Instead, the places at the two long tables below the empty High Table were filled by no system he could determine at first glance. Across from him was a very young Prince, an unsmiling, slick-haired, saturnine lad no more than eighteen, dressed in cloth-of-gold, who simply introduced himself, nodded at Kordas’s introduction, and remained silent and observant for the rest of the meal, speaking only to the Doll standing behind him to accept or reject the dishes being offered to him. On his right was a smirking fop of a skinny Count, whose clothing was the very opposite of Kordas’s—gold braid ornamented every possible surface of his scarlet coat, with gold lace on his ruff and sleeves. He very clearly considered himself to be Kordas’s superior in every way, even before the first words were spoken. To his left was a wheezing, elderly Duke, whose silver-embroidered, green waistcoat strained to contain his belly, and whose matching coat could not possibly have been buttoned over it.

Kordas turned to the Duke first, as the initial dish of the first course, a clear broth, was served. After the Duke had nodded to his Doll to ladle the broth into the silver bowl before him, Kordas introduced himself.

“Eh? Valdemar, is it?” Duke Elnore took a moment to spoon up some of the broth, tasting it with delicate manners. Kordas was not surprised at the manners. These were drummed into every hostage’s head until they were second nature. “Horses, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, my lord Duke,” Kordas replied, as Count Declaine on his other side rolled his eyes at the Prince across from them. “The Sweetfoot line of palfreys, the Fleetfoot line of race horses, the Imperial Chargers for the Imperial knights, and the Valdemar Golds.” He didn’t mention the Tow-Beasts. That would be pushing things a little too far.

“Hrm! Hrm! Hrm!” replied the Duke. Was that a laugh? It might have been. “Lost a wager a time or two to those Fleetfoot nags of yours. Breed ’em to run slower, why don’t you?” And then he uttered an actual laugh at his own wit.

“You don’t mean to say you breed them yourself, do you, Valdemar?” The Count’s eyes glittered with some unreadable emotion, as the second dish of the course was served, and Kordas declined it. This dinner would probably have twelve courses of no less than three dishes each, and you had to pace yourself if you didn’t want to be sick.