Free The Thousand Names by Django Wexler

colonel said, from the doorway. “And the glaze is an interesting design. It has nearly the look of proper china, doesn’t it? But it’s practically impossible to scratch.” He shook his head. “The food won’t be much, I’m afraid. Augustin is a wizard, but there’s only so much that can be done with salt beef and hard bread.”
    Marcus, whose last meal had been a thin mutton soup from a wooden bowl, shrugged.
    “Once we’ve had some time to settle in, I hope that you’ll introduce me to the local delicacies,” the colonel went on.
    “When we left Ashe-Katarion,” Marcus said, “the thing to eat was roasted
imhalyt
beetles in the shell. Under the right conditions they can grow to be eight inches long, and the meat is supposedly delightful.”
    Janus didn’t bat an eye. “It sounds . . . fascinating. Did you spend a great deal of time with the locals?”
    “Before the Redeemers, we had reasonably good relations,” Marcus said, considering. “On the whole I wouldn’t say they loved us, of course, but I had friends in the city. There was a little place by the harbor that sold
arphalta
—that’s a sort of clam—and I used to spend my free evenings there. The damn things are hard to get open unless you know the trick, but the meat is sweet as candy.”
    Marcus paused, wondering suddenly if the little
arphalta
shop was still there or if it had been consigned to the flames by the Redeemers. Wondering, for that matter, how many of his friends might have shared a similar fate.
    “I wish I’d been here,” the colonel said. “It’s a fascinating culture, and I’d have loved to have explored it in peace. I imagine any further interactions will be somewhat—strained.”
    “Quite probably,” Marcus deadpanned.
    Augustin came back in with a silver tureen of thick red soup and a pair of bowls. He placed and poured with all the noiseless elegance of the ancient retainer, then went back to the kitchen for glasses and a bottle of wine. He presented the latter to Janus for approval.
    “Yes, that will do,” Janus told him. Glancing at Marcus, he said, “You have no objection to Hamveltai
flaghaelan
, I hope?”
    Marcus, whose appreciation of wine began and ended with what color it was, nodded uncertainly.
    “Augustin was quite upset with me when I didn’t allow him to bring half the cellar,” Janus said. “I kept telling him that we were unlikely to require a Bere Nefeit ’79 while on campaign, but he was most insistent.”
    “One never knows what may expected of one,” Augustin said. He poured deftly. “A gentleman must always be prepared to entertain guests in the manner of a gentleman.”
    “Yes, yes.” Janus took up his glass and raised it. “To the king’s health!”
    “The king’s health,” Marcus echoed, and sipped. It was good, truthfully, though after years of Khandarai rotgut it felt like drinking fruit juice. He was more interested in the soup—if the ingredients were salt beef and hard bread, they had certainly been well concealed. Before he realized it he had cleaned the bowl and found himself looking around for more.
    “Another helping for the captain,” Janus said.
    “Thank you, sir,” Marcus said. He cleared his throat. “You’d best know, I had a visitor this afternoon—”
    “Our Miss Alhundt? Yes, I thought you might.”
    “She . . .” Marcus paused, looking at Augustin. Janus caught his expression.
    “You may trust in Augustin’s discretion. I certainly do. However, if it makes you more comfortable—Augustin, would you leave us for a few minutes?”
    “Certainly, sir.” The manservant bowed. “I will be outside if my lord requires anything.”
    He ghosted out.
He should get together with Fitz,
Marcus thought. Both men had obviously mastered the art of noiseless movement in order to sneak up on their superiors.
    “You were saying something about Miss Alhundt?”
    “Ah, yes, sir.” Marcus shook his head. “She works for the Ministry of Information. I