Free Nobody's Son by Sean Stewart Page B

dressed in a peach doublet with blueberry lace and hose. “He looks like dessert,” Mark muttered as they sat down.
    Val stifled a smirk.
    If nothing else about Mark’s reception had been what he had hoped, the dinner at least lived up to expectation. Seven magnificent courses, punctuated with excellent wines and ices; truly a feast worthy of a hero.
    And the hero needed it. Still, after the turtle soup and the wildflower salad, the stuffed quail and the braised peacock in mustard sauce, Mark began to slow down, trying to savour the glorious food.
    You might eat like this the rest of your life, you lucky bastard!
    Never go hungry again. Never wake up wi’ belly snarling at darkness, knowing there isn’t a mite for breakfast. Never hammer your face into a smile and shake your head at someone’s charity while your legs feel like willow-wands from hunger. Never forage for sloes and fiddleheads to throw in the pot because you have neither bread nor grain . At the thought, a looseness spread from his belly to his back, as if his stomach had been clenched around hunger all his life and only now relaxed its grip.
    He spied on his tablemates. They had smooth skin and soft hands that had never known a plow or scythe or hammer. They did not know how special, how holy a wonder this dinner was that their servants set before them, platter after plate.
    Lord Peridot controlled the conversation at their table, Mark soon saw, always ready with a well-placed question to start someone talking, or a well-placed thrust to finish them off. As the butlers served the fifth course, pheasant braised in garlic butter on a bed of watercress, Peridot was asking Janseni her opinion of Sir Avedut, composer to the Court and songmaster in the employ of Councillor Anujel.
    “His work is… well-proportioned,” she said cautiously. “It always gives the ear what it expects, which satisfies an audience.”
    “But can, perhaps, not move them?”
    “Precisely my thought too, mi’lord,” Janseni said with some relief. The musician leaned forward with increasing passion. “Is it the place of art to merely give the people what they want? Or should we teach them to want more, expect more, hear more! Art, real art, something more than balance and proportion must possess. It must have fire, and passion. Art must have a vision, a challenge and a lesson to bring before its audience.”
    “I like a challenge too: but not at dinner!” Lord Peridot remarked. The Countess Malahat smiled, half for him, half at her.
    “Not a challenge then; I mis-spoke myself. Say rather, I would hope my music held a hand out to its listeners, and led them to a place where they had never been before.”
    Valerian nodded. “Or seen once long ago; or dreamed; but thought they had forgotten.”
    “Exactly,” Janseni said. “Just so.” She coloured, and abased her eyes beneath Peridot’s amused smile. “Of course I cannot promise that the piece your Lordship asked from me will reach these lofty goals; perhaps at least it will amuse.”
    “Oh, it will at least amuse, dear girl. Have no fear of that .” And though Peridot’s smile seemed kindly, Janseni blanched. After that she spoke seldom, and reluctantly.
    All dinner long, Mark noticed, Janseni was constantly watched by a young man two tables away, whose wan face and ardent gaze told everyone in the hall how desperately he loved her.
    The Countess Malahat was what Mark’s friends called a Rain-in-April Woman: one who could stir even the deadest root. Must use wire in the bosom of her gown to push ‘em up , Mark thought. You want to knock ‘em with your knuckles to see if they’re ripe .
    He chatted a little with her, and then a little more, kindled by the sparkle in her eyes. There was a moment, as their glances met and tangled over the remains of the cold snipe, when he found himself thinking wistfully that if only he had known about the amiable Countess, he might not have been in such a hurry to dicker for