turn, watched her.
Once she’d put a few trees between herself and the clearing, she turned and raced back to camp.
A LONG TABLE HAD BEEN BROUGHT IN FROM SOMEWHERE— or possibly constructed rapidly by the carpenters and wheelwrights who traveled with the caravan—and covered with a rich pale blue cloth. Actual glass and porcelain dishes had been set out, in place of the usual wood and stoneware, and there was even a cut-glass vase filled with fresh jungle flowers in the table’s center. Only the seating betrayed the essential roughness of the enterprise, being a motley assortment of folding stools and camp chairs. When Zaltys arrived, having changed out of her hunting leathers into something less formal than her city garb but, at least, not actually blood- and sap-stained, Alaia sat at the head of the table dressed in mist-colored robes with a jeweled diadem on her brow, with Julen at her left. He wore a black formal dining suit that Zaltys couldn’t believe he’d bothered to pack. Quelamia sat farther down the table, and wore robes that seemed woven from waterfalls and sunlight and green leaves. Glory sat slouched across from her.
“Glory,” Zaltys said, taking the empty chair at her mother’s right hand. “I didn’t know you even owned a dress!”
Glory sniffed. Her gown was equal parts shadow and spiderweb, clinging to her slim and shapely form, and her jewelry was the silver of moonlight. “I found it at the bottom of a trunk somewhere.”
“Who’s talking?” Julen looked around, frowning.
“Glory,” Alaia said sternly. “Uncloud the boy’s mind. He’s seventh in line to succeed the head of the Guardians—I daresay he has the standing to know you exist , at least for the duration of our meal.”
“Sorry. It’s habit.” Glory waved her hand in a gesture that, Zaltys knew, was entirely unnecessary, and Julen gasped.
“A tiefling! Where’d you come from?”
“Glory is our resident psion,” Alaia said, patting Julen’s knee.
“Most people stare at my horns,” Glory said, and Julen looked away, blushing. Glory preferred to go unnoticed, but Julen had quite obviously noticed the way her clinging gown showed off her bosom. Zaltys snickered, and her mother gave her a warning look.
“It’s so nice to have more family with us,” Alaia said. “I do not imagine we’ll be able to have a formal dinner every night, but I thought it would be a nice welcome for Julen, to help ease him into the reality of life in the caravan.”
“It’s walking, walking, and more walking,” Glory said. “Or, if you’re me, riding in a carriage. And then sitting, and waiting, and sitting some more, and then doing a little work at the end.”
“Some of us have work to do throughout,” Quelamia said. “But, yes, there are long stretches of simply traveling.”
“So … we’re not there yet?” Julen said. “I mean, this is the jungle, right?”
“This is the edge of the jungle,” Zaltys said. “We have to go a lot deeper to get to the terazul blossoms—under trees so dense the sun doesn’t really penetrate, among the wild things and ruins, along tracks that become so overgrown in the months between our visits that Quelamia and the road crews have to clear the paths all over again.”
“The overgrowth is something we encourage, magically,” Alaia said. “Though the jungle scarcely needs any help. But it helps hide the paths from those who would steal our trade secrets.” She gestured to a waiting servant—just a laborer pressed into service for the evening—who brought over a tureen of soup and ladled it out into the waiting green glass bowls before each person at the table.
“I don’t see why you need to traipse off into the jungles anyway,” Julen said, sniffing his soup dubiously before tasting a mouthful. “Huh. This isn’t bad.”
Zaltys took a spoonful of her own, and found it rather bland, but then, her favorite part of any caravan meal was the fresh-killed game, and that
Once she’d put a few trees between herself and the clearing, she turned and raced back to camp.
A LONG TABLE HAD BEEN BROUGHT IN FROM SOMEWHERE— or possibly constructed rapidly by the carpenters and wheelwrights who traveled with the caravan—and covered with a rich pale blue cloth. Actual glass and porcelain dishes had been set out, in place of the usual wood and stoneware, and there was even a cut-glass vase filled with fresh jungle flowers in the table’s center. Only the seating betrayed the essential roughness of the enterprise, being a motley assortment of folding stools and camp chairs. When Zaltys arrived, having changed out of her hunting leathers into something less formal than her city garb but, at least, not actually blood- and sap-stained, Alaia sat at the head of the table dressed in mist-colored robes with a jeweled diadem on her brow, with Julen at her left. He wore a black formal dining suit that Zaltys couldn’t believe he’d bothered to pack. Quelamia sat farther down the table, and wore robes that seemed woven from waterfalls and sunlight and green leaves. Glory sat slouched across from her.
“Glory,” Zaltys said, taking the empty chair at her mother’s right hand. “I didn’t know you even owned a dress!”
Glory sniffed. Her gown was equal parts shadow and spiderweb, clinging to her slim and shapely form, and her jewelry was the silver of moonlight. “I found it at the bottom of a trunk somewhere.”
“Who’s talking?” Julen looked around, frowning.
“Glory,” Alaia said sternly. “Uncloud the boy’s mind. He’s seventh in line to succeed the head of the Guardians—I daresay he has the standing to know you exist , at least for the duration of our meal.”
“Sorry. It’s habit.” Glory waved her hand in a gesture that, Zaltys knew, was entirely unnecessary, and Julen gasped.
“A tiefling! Where’d you come from?”
“Glory is our resident psion,” Alaia said, patting Julen’s knee.
“Most people stare at my horns,” Glory said, and Julen looked away, blushing. Glory preferred to go unnoticed, but Julen had quite obviously noticed the way her clinging gown showed off her bosom. Zaltys snickered, and her mother gave her a warning look.
“It’s so nice to have more family with us,” Alaia said. “I do not imagine we’ll be able to have a formal dinner every night, but I thought it would be a nice welcome for Julen, to help ease him into the reality of life in the caravan.”
“It’s walking, walking, and more walking,” Glory said. “Or, if you’re me, riding in a carriage. And then sitting, and waiting, and sitting some more, and then doing a little work at the end.”
“Some of us have work to do throughout,” Quelamia said. “But, yes, there are long stretches of simply traveling.”
“So … we’re not there yet?” Julen said. “I mean, this is the jungle, right?”
“This is the edge of the jungle,” Zaltys said. “We have to go a lot deeper to get to the terazul blossoms—under trees so dense the sun doesn’t really penetrate, among the wild things and ruins, along tracks that become so overgrown in the months between our visits that Quelamia and the road crews have to clear the paths all over again.”
“The overgrowth is something we encourage, magically,” Alaia said. “Though the jungle scarcely needs any help. But it helps hide the paths from those who would steal our trade secrets.” She gestured to a waiting servant—just a laborer pressed into service for the evening—who brought over a tureen of soup and ladled it out into the waiting green glass bowls before each person at the table.
“I don’t see why you need to traipse off into the jungles anyway,” Julen said, sniffing his soup dubiously before tasting a mouthful. “Huh. This isn’t bad.”
Zaltys took a spoonful of her own, and found it rather bland, but then, her favorite part of any caravan meal was the fresh-killed game, and that
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