Shadowdance by Robin W Bailey Page A

table, another a silver tray with goblets and an oinochoe jug decorated with an elaborate floral pattern. The third bore two serving dishes, one heaped with small meat cakes, the other with sliced fruit, dates and nuts. Innowen watched steam rise from the cakes and realized he was quite hungry. He licked his lips and inhaled the aroma.
    "Lord Minarik will join you shortly," the last servant informed him. "He wishes that you help yourself until he arrives."
    They left him alone in the gazebo. He stared at the warm cakes but decided to wait for Minarik. The table was close enough, though, and he filled one goblet. To his surprise he poured, not water, but wine. He had seldom tasted wine. Drushen had not been able to afford it.
    No, he would not think of Drushen. He sipped the wine, savoring its potent, unfamiliar taste. It wasn't as wonderful as he'd expected, but he had a feeling he could grow to like it. He took another sip and gazed up at the sky, so blue and cloudless for this time of autumn. It was comfortably warm, too. He studied the walls of Whisperstone block by block as they rose high around him, noting with disinterest the small shuttered apartment windows that dotted its heights. He ran his fingernails over the chair arms and over his unfeeling thighs. At last, he munched a single date.
    "Did you taste the cakes? I have the best kitchen staff in the land." Bearing a small bowl, which he placed on the table near at hand, Minarik stepped into the gazebo and smiled as he sat down in the chair opposite Innowen. He had bathed and changed. His garments were regal cloth-of-gold, and he shimmered like one of Ispor's gods. He poured wine into the other goblet, lifted it, then spilled a small quantity on the boards at his feet before he drank. The red liquid quickly ran between the cracks.
    "Why did you do that?" Innowen asked, lifting his own goblet.
    "Men die, are placed in the earth and become, in time, no more than the dust at our feet," the Lord of Whisperstone explained with a mixture of solemnity and amusement. "So spill a little wine to wet the lips of those who've gone before us."
    Innowen considered Minarik's words, then tipped his own cup. No doubt the nobles had many customs, he reflected, which common people could ill afford. Most of the folks in his acquaintance would have blanched at such a senseless waste.
    "Not too much," his benefactor cautioned with a grin. "The dead have a notoriously dull sense of taste, and this is a very rare vintage." He took another sip from his own cup, then set it aside and reached for the bowl he had brought. He lifted from it a wet, white cloth, wrung a bit of water from it, and leaned toward Innowen. Gently, he passed the cloth over each of Innowen's hands, then over his own, and returned it to the bowl. He reached for a meat cake. "Now try one of these," he suggested. "I promise you, they're wonderful."
    They were indeed. Some were stuffed with bits of venison, others with pork or lamb. Some were seasoned with expensive spices that Innowen had never sampled. He ate four cakes and washed them down with wine. Then he ate four more. When his belly was full, he settled back in his chair. He couldn't remember ever feeling so stuffed. Nevertheless, he forced down one mote cake for politeness' sake. It wouldn't do to let Minarik think his food was unsatisfactory.
    While he ate, Minarik watched him. Innowen successfully ignored him while he eased his hunger. As he munched his last cake, though, it began to bother him. No word had been spoken during their meal. Innowen consumed his final crumb, licked his fingers, and waited patiently for his host to finish a last bite of fruit. When it was gone, Minarik leaned forward and refilled both their goblets.
    "You've been very kind to me," Innowen said somewhat shyly. He tasted the wine once more, then put it aside. Rare it might be, and with food the taste was not too bad. But just to drink? Maybe he would grow to like it, and maybe