L. Modesitt - Natural Ordermage

“You will do well in Hamor,” Deybri continued in Hamorian. “You have no accent. I do.”

“I learned from your uncle and the children.”

“Actually, he does have an accent, but it will work to his advantage,” said Thorl. “He speaks as I do, and that will tell people he is from Atla. That way, he will be considered Hamorian-but excused for not knowing all that he might about Swartheld.”

At that moment, a server appeared, wearing the same khakis as the owner had but a pale green vest. He set three goblets on the table and a large pitcher. Then came a circular bone porcelain platter with scalloped edges, which he placed in the center of the dark oiled wood of the table. On the platter were fried folded shapes that were roughly octagonal.

Thorl poured a clear liquid from the pitcher, half-filling each goblet. “Rahl, you must taste the leshak-it’s a wine from greenberries and white grapes. Drink it in moderation. It’s more powerful than it tastes.”

Rahl lifted the goblet, noting that the wine had the slightest of green tinges. He took a small sip. The wine was smooth and cool, with a taste that was unlike anything he’d ever had. Perhaps the closest might have been a cross of pearapple, green-apple juice, with a hint of honey, and an even tinier hint of pine.

“Although they use greenberries liberally, the taste is totally unlike the vaunted greenberry brandy of the north,” Thorl added.

Rahl had heard of the brandy, but no scrivener could ever have afforded it, nor could any of his friends or acquaintances.

“The pashtakis are a favorite and common dish everywhere in Hamor. They are spiced crab and mushroom filling inside a crispy fried pastry. The ones in Hamor are sweeter, because the southern crabs are more…” At that point, Thorl used a word that Rahl had never heard and could not discern from context.

“More what, ser?”

“Juicy and tasty…succulent.”

Rahl concentrated on holding the word.

“These are still good, and perhaps better,” the magister went on. “They aren’t as likely to be cloying if you eat too many.” Thorl paused. “Cloying…too sickeningly sweet.”

“Thank you.”

Rahl sampled one of the pashtakis. The appetizer almost melted in his mouth after a single bite into it, leaving a piquant taste that was neither mushroom nor crab, yet both. “Good.”

“I thought you might like them,” replied Magister Thorl. “By the way, meals are far more social in Hamor than in Recluce. The midday meal is luncheon, and light, but an occasion for planning or business. The evening meal is late, well after twilight, and much more substantive-solid-if you will.”

“Do men and women eat together in public?” asked Rahl. “I had heard…”

“Only if they are consorted, or if a woman is accompanied by a male relative. Now…women can eat together in public, and groups of men and women can eat together at the same place if they are at separate tables. Among families or in private, it does not matter. Only the appearances matter.”

Rahl almost laughed. That sounded like Land’s End.

“That may be because their customs are more directly Cyadoran, as is the language itself, which is decadent Cyadoran mingled with High Temple and fermented by time. Also, certain subjects are not discussed in public. They are not forbidden, but a sign of bad manners. One does not discuss family difficulties, nor order or chaos, or anything personal about the Emperor…”

Rahl listened intently.

Abruptly, Thorl broke off as the server reappeared and removed the platter that had held the pashtakis and replaced their platters with clean ones before placing two serving dishes before them. One held sheets of very thin pan bread, seemingly barely thicker than parchment, and the other long light brown cylinders.

“Biastras. Each slice of meat is braised in spiced oil just enough to brown it on each side, then rolled around sweet peppers that have been marinated-soaked in a mixture of special oils and spices for days,” Thorl explained to Rahl, “and each tube is braised just enough to warm the peppers. Then the meat is dipped in an egg and corn flour mixture and fried briefly in very hot oil.” After a moment, he added, “They actually make this with marinated wild horse meat in the far east of Hamor. I think it tastes better with horse meat than with beef or lamb, but you can find all three kinds of biastras.”

Rahl took a small bite of the end of the cylinder. Even the small mouthful left his mouth and nose burning. Sweat popped out on his forehead.

“I think I forgot to mention that they can be very spicy.” Thorl grinned.

Deybri laughed softly, then turned. “That was cruel, Uncle.”

“Somewhat, but had I told Rahl how hot it was, he would not have tried it.” He looked at Rahl. “Have a bite of the bread. That will cool the taste more than leshak or anything you drink. Too many sailors have ended up in the ironworks or the quarries for the Great Highway because they thought leshak would cool their throats.” He laughed jovially. “It will, but the cost can be rather exorbitant. High,” he explained, seeing Rahl’s momentary puzzlement at the unfamiliar word.

“Another way to eat them,” suggested Deybri, “is to wrap them in the thin bread and eat bread and biastras together. That’s what I do.”

Rahl followed Deybri’s example and found that the taste was merely close to unbearably spicy rather than intolerable.

“Burping or slurping…or smacking one’s lips,” Thorl went on, “is considered very common and bad manners…”

As he ate carefully, Rahl continued to listen. He also only sipped the leshak.

Before long, the biastras and bread had vanished, and the server placed another platter before them.

Magister Thorl gestured. “Khouros. Two cinnamon pastry tubes-one inside the other and tied together with a thin layer of honey. The inner tube is filled with sweet creamy cheese.”

Rahl enjoyed the dessert greatly, perhaps because he’d missed true sweets and perhaps because the khouros removed all the aftertastes of the spicy Hamorian dishes.

When he finished, he looked at the magister and inclined his head. “Thank you so much. This is the best meal I’ve had since I came to Nylan, and certainly with the best company.” He turned to Deybri. “With the exception of those I’ve had with you, but neither the food nor the other company was so good.”

Thorl laughed. “That was the best sentence you’ve uttered in Hamorian, and a perfect conclusion to a meal.”

Deybri just shook her head.

Thorl turned to Rahl. “I’d be most appreciative if you would walk Deybri home. It’s not that far.”

“Uncle…” Deybri half protested.

“Humor me, if you would. I have certain matters to take care of with Kysant.”

“Of course.”

Rahl rose, scarcely before Deybri did. He inclined his head to the magister once more. “Thank you again.”

“It was my pleasure.”

Neither Deybri nor Rahl spoke until they were out on the street.

“Which way?” Rahl asked.

She laughed. “You don’t have to speak Hamorian any longer.”

“Oh…I’m sorry.”

“Uncle said you had a gift for languages. You certainly do.” Deybri gestured. “Up the main road. We’ll turn east a little less than a kay along.”

“Did he teach you Hamorian?”

“He tried. I spent a little time, just a few eightdays, in Atla years ago.”

“I can’t imagine you were exiled.”

“No, but the magisters felt I needed to see what happened when only strength of some sort ordered a land. So I was sent as a healer to work with a trading company. I was ready to come back to Nylan after a few days…and very grateful to be allowed to.”