called a silly foppishly dressed fellow who must be the overseer of the servers. We ignored him. We marched on in stately procession, carrying the viands high to conceal the golden zhantil-masks. Strom Murgon sat in state in this banqueting hall of Korfseyrie. The chamber bore none of the marks of long disuse of the other parts of the fortress. Tapestries glowed upon the stone walls. The beams above were carved and gilded. The tables in the form of a horseshoe carried fine yellow napery, and silver and gold vessels, and banked vases of flowers. Incense hung in the air, which stank worse than we did from the sewers. Murgon’s cronies sat about the tables, facing inward to the hollow center. Among them lolled many painted girls in transparent draperies. In the space between the arms of the horseshoe tables a troupe of erotic contortionists performed. This explained the lack of urgency in chasing up the next course of the feast. They’d been sitting here enjoying themselves since they’d avoided us in the forest and settled down to a night of debauchery, and they were not halfway through yet.
