Liar's Island: A Novel by Tim Pratt Page A

room, most already seated, a few standing and mingling in little groups, the women in scarves and veils, the men in loose pants with broad sashes, except for those in monk’s robes in various hues, doubtless denoting their religious and martial affiliations.
    Rodrick was fairly adept at reading the composition of a crowd of nobles in most of the kingdoms back home, but his ignorance of Vudrani ways limited his capacity here. Who were the true powers here, and who were the strivers? Was it even worth his while to know? He picked up a tall fluted glass of something bubbly from the tray of a passing servant—another eunuch, he suspected—and took a sip.
    â€œAh, good, you’ve arrived.” Nagesh appeared at his elbow and gently herded him toward one of the tables. “You will be seated not far from the thakur’s table, beside one of the teachers from the Monastery of Untwisting Iron—your mutual interest in weapons should make conversation pleasant.”
    Rodrick smiled instead of groaning. Was there anything more tedious than talking about the merits of various sorts of swords? Clearly magical swords of living ice were best, but when he made that point, it was seldom well received. He was surprised, when he reached the table, to find an elaborate sword stand beside his chair, made of silver and gold.
    â€œFor Hrym,” Nagesh said, and Rodrick couldn’t contain a grin. Lots of people preferred to pretend that Hrym was just a sword, however remarkable, and it was nice to see his partner treated with respect. He drew the sword, perhaps a bit too hastily as the room rapidly went silent, heads turning to look at the man holding a few feet of glittering magic in his hands. He raised his other hand in a wave, gave his most rakish smile, and set Hrym point-down on the stand beside his chair.
    â€œMmm. This is all right,” Hrym said. “Make sure you get to keep this stand, too. It’s not as good as resting on a big pile of gold coins, but it’s better than being propped up against a wall.”
    â€œThere’s the thakur,” Nagesh murmured, and Rodrick looked where he gestured. At a table raised a little higher than the others, a dozen Vudrani even more richly dressed in silks and jewels than the rest—presumably important members of the Maurya-Rahm—surrounded a figure seated in the center. The thakur was on the early slopes of his later years, and had a grandfatherly aspect, all smiles and nods, with laugh lines around his eyes and mouth. His clothing was relatively simple, but impeccably made, his beard perfectly trimmed and iron-gray. His eyes seemed to catch Rodrick’s, for a moment, and those eyes were sharp , dark and intent and all-seeing despite his smiles. Not a man Rodrick would choose as a potential mark for cheating, so he hoped he wouldn’t be forced to try.
    â€œI will come for you after the meal,” Nagesh said. “In the meantime, enjoy.”
    Nearly everyone else was already seated, so Rodrick took his place and turned to Hrym. “So that’s the thakur. Hmm.”
    â€œWhat?” Hrym said. “Why are you talking to me? Broaden your horizons, man. Good evening, my lady. Doesn’t the thakur lay on a lovely feast?”
    A woman of middle years, dressed in drapes of glittering white cloth, was seated beside Hrym, and looked startled when the sword spoke, edging away in her chair. Undiscouraged, Hrym continued to speak, in a sonorous and gracious voice, complimenting her diamond-and-gold jewelry and comparing her pale garment to the beauty of glittering high snows on mountain peaks. She responded cautiously at first, but gradually became more enthusiastic, until the two were discussing jewelry with the intensity of two aficionados starved of conversation with fellow devotees.
    Who knew the curmudgeonly old sword could be charming? He’d certainly never bothered to show that side of himself to his wielder.