there even a need for a vote now?" Qubata said evenly.
The old general watched the interplay. No one could refuse the plan, but he could see the silent rage in Tula and Suba as well. They would need to be watched.
A murmur of approval swept through the tent praising the wisdom of the Qar Qarth, and as Tula returned to his seat, those about him edged away.
Muzta smiled softly.
"Then let us feast!"
From out of the corner Alem, the soothsayer and chooser of cattle, rose up on spindly legs. The old Tugar went to the entry of the tent, which was swept open.
Smiling Alem led two cattle in chains into the tent.
"For the approval of my lords," Alem said softly. There were barks of delight from the assembly. These were prime cattle, not yet of breeding age and obviously of the highest caste.
"Their livers shall be baked in wine sauce," Alem announced. "Crust had already been rolled for the kidney pies, and as a special treat we shall cook their brains inside their skulls."
Alem looked back at his trembling meal and poked them tentatively with his long sharp finger.
The two clung to each other, terror in their eyes.
Muzta surveyed them with disdain.
"Drain their blood well—I want some soup with my meal," Muzta said softly.
Alem with a gleam in his eyes beckoned for the guards to drag the two humans out to the slaughter pit.
At least we shall eat well for tonight, Muzta thought to himself.
Munching absently on the cracked marrow from a cattle bone, he considered the Rus people in their wooden cities and felt a thrill of anticipation. He was partial to their meat, far better than the cattle they would pass by in reaching there. They seemed to have a finer grain to their flesh. With a smile he settled down upon his throne as servants brought in cuts of roasted cattle limbs for an opening snack while the high piercing shrieks of the main course, about to be slaughtered, rent the air.
Chapter 4
Attempting to suppress a yawn, Andrew looked about the room. It had been a night without sleep, compounded now by a hangover that made his temples feel as if they were about to explode.
He had expected that there would be a simple straightforward meeting with Ivor, an agreement struck, and then a return back to the encampment. That was mistake number one.
A grand feast had to be presented first. The meal had not been all that bad—most anything was better than the food at the regimental mess—but it had dragged on for hours, so that he felt as if he were being subjected to an endurance test.
The meal had started with baked fish and eels, then progressed to cuts of pork, roast mutton, and what looked like pheasant. But that was only for starters. With great pageantry and fanfare an entire roasted bear was paraded into the feasting hall, still wrapped in its fur, its grimacing bead mounted atop the carcass on a silver pole. That had been a hard one to take, for he had always felt a soft spot for bears, and though raised in the woods of Maine had never found it in his heart to hunt for bear or any other creature.
There had been an underlying level of tension throughout, the fifty-odd nobles about the table eyeing him with outright suspicion, while Kal with his limited ability attempted to explain what was being said.
But the second mistake had been their vodka. Drink after drink was raised, which Kal insisted he must reply to as well, or the nobles would not think him a man.
Somehow he wished he could have put Schuder in his place. The old sergeant would have drunk all of them under the table. He was finally reduced to simply sipping as each toast was raised, and the nobles openly chuckled at his distress.
Emil, however, had pulled it all off in grand style, matching them glass for glass, finally raising a number of toasts himself until the assembly had collapsed into drunken squalor.
Now if only the good doctor could give him a miracle cure for this damned hangover, he thought glumly as he stood up and stretched.
Emil at
The old general watched the interplay. No one could refuse the plan, but he could see the silent rage in Tula and Suba as well. They would need to be watched.
A murmur of approval swept through the tent praising the wisdom of the Qar Qarth, and as Tula returned to his seat, those about him edged away.
Muzta smiled softly.
"Then let us feast!"
From out of the corner Alem, the soothsayer and chooser of cattle, rose up on spindly legs. The old Tugar went to the entry of the tent, which was swept open.
Smiling Alem led two cattle in chains into the tent.
"For the approval of my lords," Alem said softly. There were barks of delight from the assembly. These were prime cattle, not yet of breeding age and obviously of the highest caste.
"Their livers shall be baked in wine sauce," Alem announced. "Crust had already been rolled for the kidney pies, and as a special treat we shall cook their brains inside their skulls."
Alem looked back at his trembling meal and poked them tentatively with his long sharp finger.
The two clung to each other, terror in their eyes.
Muzta surveyed them with disdain.
"Drain their blood well—I want some soup with my meal," Muzta said softly.
Alem with a gleam in his eyes beckoned for the guards to drag the two humans out to the slaughter pit.
At least we shall eat well for tonight, Muzta thought to himself.
Munching absently on the cracked marrow from a cattle bone, he considered the Rus people in their wooden cities and felt a thrill of anticipation. He was partial to their meat, far better than the cattle they would pass by in reaching there. They seemed to have a finer grain to their flesh. With a smile he settled down upon his throne as servants brought in cuts of roasted cattle limbs for an opening snack while the high piercing shrieks of the main course, about to be slaughtered, rent the air.
Chapter 4
Attempting to suppress a yawn, Andrew looked about the room. It had been a night without sleep, compounded now by a hangover that made his temples feel as if they were about to explode.
He had expected that there would be a simple straightforward meeting with Ivor, an agreement struck, and then a return back to the encampment. That was mistake number one.
A grand feast had to be presented first. The meal had not been all that bad—most anything was better than the food at the regimental mess—but it had dragged on for hours, so that he felt as if he were being subjected to an endurance test.
The meal had started with baked fish and eels, then progressed to cuts of pork, roast mutton, and what looked like pheasant. But that was only for starters. With great pageantry and fanfare an entire roasted bear was paraded into the feasting hall, still wrapped in its fur, its grimacing bead mounted atop the carcass on a silver pole. That had been a hard one to take, for he had always felt a soft spot for bears, and though raised in the woods of Maine had never found it in his heart to hunt for bear or any other creature.
There had been an underlying level of tension throughout, the fifty-odd nobles about the table eyeing him with outright suspicion, while Kal with his limited ability attempted to explain what was being said.
But the second mistake had been their vodka. Drink after drink was raised, which Kal insisted he must reply to as well, or the nobles would not think him a man.
Somehow he wished he could have put Schuder in his place. The old sergeant would have drunk all of them under the table. He was finally reduced to simply sipping as each toast was raised, and the nobles openly chuckled at his distress.
Emil, however, had pulled it all off in grand style, matching them glass for glass, finally raising a number of toasts himself until the assembly had collapsed into drunken squalor.
Now if only the good doctor could give him a miracle cure for this damned hangover, he thought glumly as he stood up and stretched.
Emil at
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