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“It is a filthy business. I grew skilled at it because I did not wish to die in a pool of blood and shit. No other reason.” Lyr hears the sound of cups being refilled with ale. Lyr thinks they have forgotten he is even there. “If I could have found a way to avoid it, I would have.”
“You would never have met me if you had.”
“I would never have met you because I wouldn’t have been on Pluma-Ferris fighting for Azuria and killing and enslaving your people. You would still be in your home.”
Trysta laughs. “You think that without you Azuria would never have re-taken Pluma-Ferris?”
Damon laughs too. “Have you forgotten that I am The One Man Army?”
“How could I, with you here to remind me?”
Lyr stands up before he falls asleep. He dries his feet with one of the linen cloths and wraps himself up in the cloak. He walks back into the main space of the tent. Trysta smiles at him. Her teeth glittering in the candlelight. “Sit back down with us, Lyr. And eat some of this mutton before it's all gone.”
Lyr sits back at the table and Trysta slides a plate of meat in front of him. Gingerly, he takes a piece with his fingers and eats it. He has not eaten meat in years. Jareleezi said it would pollute the power in his blood. It’s greasy and strange.
“What a sweet gift Atticul has given you,” Trysta says, looking at Lyr.
“Atticul forced my hand. Would have killed him otherwise.”
Trysta places a splayed hand over her chest. “Oh, how sweet. You saved his life.”
“He didn’t deserve to die just because Atticul wanted to fan the flames of things people whisper about me.”
“Oh, the whispers? You mean the terrible, scurrilous rumour that you are sly?”
Damon nods.
“Is it a crime to be sly in Azuria?” Lyr says.
Damon looks at Lyr, a little shocked.
Trysta laughs. “I didn’t tell you?” Trysta says brightly. “He speaks Artemian.” She looks at him. “You understand us quite well, don’t you?”
“Yes, Sire. I have some Artemian.”
Trysta grins broadly at Damon. “He speaks Artemian. You speak Juran. Perhaps the two of you could mix tongues,” she says bouncily.
Damon rolls his eyes, “Zai’s balls,” he murmurs. “Are you sure you wouldn’t be happier in the castle?”
Trysta looks at Lyr. “Where are you from?” she says. “You don’t look like a Juran.”
“I’m from Klish,” Lyr says, drinking the rest of the ale in his cup. “The islands west of Jur-Mattan. In the Priam sea.”
Trysta leans over and refills it. “Klish, really. What language do they speak in Klish?”
“Some speak Juran and on my island, we speak Magaar, Sire.”
“Oh, I don’t believe I know any Magaar,” says Trysta.
“You barely know any Juran,” says Damon lightly.
Trysta gives him a withering look. “You should hear me converse in Plumian. The most beautiful language in the world.”
“Is it?” says Lyr. “I have never heard anyone speak Plumian.”
“Nor have I,” says Trysta, “for many years.”
“Magaar is a beautiful language too,” says Damon, “I learned it as a child. It is part of the education of a young nobleman to learn Magaar.”
