Free Blood and Bone by Ian C. Esslemont

and he waved him off.
    ‘Father,’ Jatal had murmured respectfully, and backed away, head lowered.
    Now, as he approached the great tent surrounded by its foreign guards, a man emerged. Tall and thin as one of the tent-poles themselves. He wore a long coat of mail, bore a grey beard and had a face as lined as a desert draw. But the eyes! Such lofty arrogance in their washed-out paleness. It was as if the man were looking down upon him, though he now had reined in at his side. ‘You are this Warleader?’
    Something like a smile tightened the man’s thin lips. ‘I am. You must be a son of the Hafinaj.’
    ‘Prince Jatal.’
    ‘Welcome, Prince Jatal, to my humble encampment. You honour us with your presence. My men will show you a place for your lancers. No doubt you wish to refresh yourself. May I expect you this night for an assemblage of families?’
    ‘You may.’
    ‘Very good.’ The man bowed though his eyes held no deference in the least.
    Vaguely irritated, Jatal answered with the curtest of nods.
    That night, with the help of his retainers, Prince Jatal dressed in his best silk shirt and trousers and thrust through his waist sash the most jewelled of his ornamental daggers – all because his father had warned him not to shame his family. He ate first before going to the dinner so as not to be distracted by his hunger, or the carnality of eating itself.
    Foreign guards opened the tent flap at his approach. Entering, he paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the greater brightness of all the torches and braziers. Low tables encircled the walls at which all the guests were seated on carpets and cushions. Opposite the entrance sat the Warleader, cross-legged, incongruously still encumbered by his mail coat. From one side a huge bear of a fellow lumbered to his feet and swept up to Jatal, arms out. He recognized the man as Ganell of the Awamir, longtime allies of the Hafinaj.
    ‘Prince Jatal!’ the fat man boomed. ‘How you have grown!’ He made a show of looking Jatal up and down. ‘How the ladies must have swooned at your departure! You are every inch the prince now.’
    ‘Ganell.’ Jatal greeted the man with a hug that could only embrace a portion of his bulk.
    ‘Come sit with me. I insist! We of the Awamir welcome the Hafinaj!’
    ‘You honour me.’
    Sitting, Jatal noted across the way the glowering bearded face of Sher’ Tal, Horsemaster of the Saar, their traditional blood-enemy. Jatal chose to merely glance away to their host, the Warleader. The man nodded his welcome.
    Servants came and went carrying platters of steamed cracked wheat, entire roasted lamb and goat, fruits and decanters of wine. Jatal allowed a plate to be set before him but partook of none. He lifted a bronze wine goblet to his lips but did not drink.
    Meanwhile, Ganell, next to him, consumed enough for two or three, laughing and entertaining everyone with a story about one of his sons, whom he considered a gaggle of empty-headed smoke-addicts good only for spending his gold.
    ‘Not like you, Jatal!’ he boomed, slapping him on the shoulder. ‘Poet and philosopher, I hear! Just like the princes of old!’
    ‘Yet they honour you, I’m sure,’ Jatal murmured.
    ‘What? By their fornicating? Their dissipation and squandering? In that I suppose they honour me.’
    ‘For myself,’ began Sher’ Tal from across the tent, ‘I did not come to hear stories of the consequences of inbreeding.’
    ‘Breeding?’ Ganell responded, peering about and making a show of being puzzled. ‘Speaking of breeds, I hear the braying of an ass!’
    Sher’ Tal lunged to his feet.
    ‘
Gentlemen
!’ the foreigner shouted, also rising. ‘Gentlemen – and ladies,’ he added, nodding towards the women who had come as representatives. ‘Let us not forget we are here to discuss cooperation.’
    ‘And why should we listen to you?’ one of the crowd called.
    The man paced to the centre of the tent. His mail rustled like the stirring of dry leaves.