Two Cats

Chapter 7

It's moments like that which remind me why I take such great care to plan things down to the last detail.

Suddenly, nobody knew what to do. In fact, we might have all gone home hungry had it not been for a lad from the kitchen darting up to the immobile Lord Teuring and hurriedly whispering something in his ear. Since the moment I'd made my announcement to the rest of the room he'd stood there, unmoving, staring across the table at the object that he probably believed spelled his ruin.

As beliefs went, it was a good one.

“Dinner,” he said, his manner suggesting that the slightest breeze might be sufficient to knock him to the floor, “will be brought out for your enjoyment in ... a few moments.”

“Hang on!” I practically yelled, sounding scandalized. “Weren't we in the middle of a toast just now? You can't just abandon a toast in the middle!”

Jaw working, eyes clouded with failure, he leveled a look of hatred down the table at me. Setting the Copperfen Goblet down on the table, he reached for his dinner wine glass, raising it out before him with a perfunctory nod to all assembled and bringing it to his lips to drink without a word.

“To Lord Teuring!” I bellowed, holding my own glass out as dramatically as I could, “May his success this evening be indicative of the kind of success he may achieve in all of his future endeavors!”

I took a gentle sip from the glass I held. The green wine it contained was now slightly below room temperature, and tasted sweet.

Very sweet indeed.

Sitting back down, I pretended to take no notice to the angry looks being sent my way, or even the quietly amused ones. It wasn't too terribly often that something like this happened, where a dramatic shifting of circumstances disrupted all plans and expectations for the evening. I enjoyed it all the more for its rarity, as I'm sure some of the other Lords present did.

I tried to exchange some minor pleasantries with a Lord sitting beside me, discussing the vintage of the wine we were enjoying, idle speculation regarding what kind of meal the wine's characteristics might suggest we were going to be served. Every now and again I glanced down the table at Teuring, whose demeanor now possessed all of the qualities of a broken, stricken man. Shoulders slumped, complexion pale and waxy in the insufficient light, he sat looking forlornly at the table, eyes wide.

“Tucat,” a solemn voice said nearby, to my left.

“Lord Greybridge,” I said, standing up and sending him a quick bow from the waist. He'd made his way from the host's end of the table to mine, presumably to inspect the goblet I had brought. The evening was not entirely over, I reminded myself, and the outcome still needed attending to.

The rotund, elegantly draped figure held his hands out expectantly towards the goblet in front of me. I retrieved the boxed item and delivered it gently into his outstretched arms.

He drew the goblet from its case and inspected it, and I saw him nod slightly to himself as he turned the metal chalice by its stem. I don't know what he might have seen – I'd had both goblets together for a time and could not spot a single difference between them.

A few seconds later he put the goblet into the wooden box, closed it, and waved for me to lean closer so that we might talk.

I gestured away from the table, suggesting that we should remove ourselves from earshot first. He acquiesced, and once we'd put a few feet between us and the table he spoke quietly to me.

“Our keeps look nothing alike,” he said blandly.

“Very true. I can only dream of my own humble home someday achieving a mere fraction of the prominence and majesty of your own.”