neutrality. He listens to the servant-master’s progress down the stone steps,
overhears him dismissing the servants. Turns and gestures to the pile of
cushions by the huge fireplace. The smell of winter’s ashes masked by incense
fumes.
I have a good wine, Amar. Be seated while I fetch it.
Were you comfortable with our guests?
Merchants, indeed. But one does learn from other classes, don’t you agree?
He returns with two goblets of wine so purple it is almost black. He sets both
goblets in front of Amar: choose. Even closest friends follow this ritual in
Sanctuary, where poisoning is art, sport, profession. Yes, it was the colour
that intrigued me. Good fortune.
No, it’s from a grove in the mountains, east of Syr. Kalos or something; I could
never get my tongue around their barbaric … yes. A good dessert wine. Would
you care for a pipe?
Enoir returns, jingling his bell as he walks up the steps.
That will be all for today, thank you …
No, I don’t want the hounds fed. Better sport Ilsday if they’re famished. We can
live with their whimpering.
The heavy front door creaks shut behind the servant-master. You don’t? You would
not be the only noble in attendance. Let your beard grow a day or two, borrow
some rag from a servant…
Well, there are two schools of thinking. Hungry dogs are weaker but fight with
desperation. And if your dogs aren’t fed for a week, there’s a week they can’t
be poisoned by the other teams.
Oh, it does happen – I think it happened to me once. Not a killing poison, just
one that makes them listless, uncompetitive. Perhaps a spell. Poison’s cheaper.