Free Elvenborn by Mercedes Lackey, Andre Norton

af¬ternoon spent in having my jaded appetites aroused by poor hu¬man girls who only exist to serve as my concubines to be particularly amusing.
    After the first hour, they snubbed him openly, and with un¬veiled contempt.
    This, strangely enough, made him very uncomfortable. He hadn't expected them to make him feel that way. He could try to tell himself that these people didn't matter, that all he had to do was remain polite and comport himself like a gentleman and nothing they reported back to their fathers would do any harm—but that didn't make the sneers and the sniggering any easier to bear. He didn't like them, but they were many and he was one; it was all too easy to feel the hurt of the scorned out¬sider. He truly hadn't anticipated that sort of reaction from him¬self, and he wished there was a way he could gracefully extricate himself and go home.
    As he stared fixedly down at the wooden-walled arena below him, he heard whispers behind him, and snickering, and felt the back of his neck grow hot. He was just glad that Gel was here with him, in the role of bodyguard; somehow it was easier to stay composed with Gel's stone-faced example to copy.
    I'm on their choice of ground; the best I can hope to do is get out of this without making any major blunders. Mother couldn 't possibly have known how slippery this situation could become. He was acutely aware that they had far more experience than he at the maneuvering of intrigue and politics. He felt horribly young, shallow, and naive; these people had drunk machination with their first milk, and he had no idea how to deal with situa¬tions they wouldn't even hesitate over.
    Kyrtian had taken a seat in the first row to avoid meeting their eyes any longer, but they continued to speak to each other in voices pitched for him to overhear, taunting him to respond.
    "Who, exactly, is this fellow?" asked an arrogant young male a little to Kyrtian's left.
     
    "My cousin Kyrtian," Aelmarkin said lightly. "Son of the late Lord Darthenian, my uncle."
    "Lord Darthenian..." someone murmured behind him. "That name sounds familiar. Don't I know it from some old story or other?"
    "Try coupling the name with daft," drawled another, sound¬ing so smug that it was all Kyrtian could do to keep from stand¬ing up and going for the fellow's throat. "Daft Darthenian, pot-hunter, excavator of things better left buried, and pursuer of useless old manuscripts. Missing in pursuit of same, and pre¬sumed dead, oh, decades ago."
    "Now, Ferahine, there's nothing wrong with having a hobby," replied Aelmarkin, in a tone so tolerant that Kyrtian clenched his hands on the armrests of his chair to keep himself in his seat. "Isn't insect-collecting as silly? I've seen you send slaves out bobbing about in fields and forests with a net and a bottle—and all those boxes of dead beetles are just as useless as unreadable manuscripts!"
    "Point taken. Still, hobbies are all very well, Aelmarkin," said the drawler, "But no gentleman and no sane fellow goes off himself to dig up nasty old discards in parts unknown, now, does he? I certainly don't go rambling through briars with nets and bottles! That's what slaves are for! And he went out alone, too! Why, that was simply insane, if you ask me."
    Kyrtian gritted his teeth. He knew he was meant to overhear all of this. He knew they were trying to provoke him. And they were only saying in his hearing what they told each other—and what their elders said. If he just kept his temper, he would learn a great deal. If they thought he was too dull to understand—or too cowardly to respond—what possible harm could it do?
    Still, it was the hardest thing he had ever done, to sit there and let strangers abuse the memory of his own father, without challenging them.
    "Alone!" exclaimed the first speaker. "Why didn't he take slaves, if he wouldn't send them to do his hunting for him? Ael¬markin, admit it, he must have been deranged!"
    There was an audible rustle of