Page 7 of The Concubine King
On the other end there was more city.They did not go into it, but followed a path along the river.It sloped down until it was near level with the water.There, tied tightly to posts along the riverbank, was a large, long boat.That must have been what it was, though it didn’t look like the descriptions from travelers.There were no cloths tied to the top or people sitting inside with sticks jutting out.It looked almost like a house, a covered wooden structure standing in its middle with curved roof points that held glass-and-iron lanterns at each corner.
Two people who had been standing idly nearby and chatting straightened when the group came near.One of them hurried to lift a wide plank from the ground and hook it over the side of the boat.Then they quickly stepped aside and bent almost double.
The red-haired guard, Poyut, walked up the plank without hesitation, turning once inside the boat to help the priest up and into it.Then she held out a hand to Ethyr.
He stood at the bottom of the plank, looking at the narrow strip between the stone bank and the bowl of the boat.Water rushed under the makeshift bridge, looking much more vicious and dangerous than it had from several heights above it.
“It is perfectly safe, Your Divinity,” she reassured him.“Pass me your basket.”
He looked down at the wicker top, latched shut with two leather clasps.Just the thought of holding it out made his stomach turn, imagining dropping it and watching it rush away under the torrent, gone forever.Like the rest of his life.
He swallowed and shakily held it out, gripping it so tightly that the woven sticks dug painfully into his palms.The guard took it and rested it down into the boat, then reached out again.
Ethyr stepped onto the plank, pressing some weight on it to make sure it wouldn’t buckle immediately.Then he grabbed the guard’s hand and threw himself into the boat, bypassing the rest of the plank altogether.
He staggered inside, the floor lower than he expected, but the guard’s support stopped him from falling over.He looked up and was surprised to see a smile on her face.
“You could be a riverman, Your Divinity.”
“A what?”
She nodded to the two boatmen.One of them and the other guard had already climbed inside.The man still on the bank removed the little walkway, then they both went to untie the thick ropes keeping the boat in place.When they were loose, the boatman on the dock vaulted over the unobstructed water, clearing the side of the boat just as it started barreling down the river.He landed smoothly on his feet and immediately began winding up the rope, unaffected.Ethyr doubted he had looked that elegant.
“Poyut,” the priest called.She straightened and looked over at him.He had gone to the far end of the house-like structure and was waiting at the corner.She lifted the basket and started to tuck it under an arm but Ethyr reached out imploringly.
“Can I carry it?”he asked, adding, “please,” as an afterthought.She obediently held it out for him and he wrapped his arms around it, hugging it to his chest.Then she gestured for him to go first, so he walked ahead of her to meet the priest.
There was a door on that end of the structure.So itwasa house.But inside was unlike any house Ethyr had ever seen.The polished wooden floor was covered with a huge rug that almost reached the walls, its swirling, symmetrical pattern made of bright yellows and purples.Expertly woven tapestries depicting scenes of luxury and leisure were hanging on the walls between the latticed, circular windows.In the middle of it all was a low, round table, covered with dozens of small dishes piled with food Ethyr had never seen before.The smell of roasted meats and fragrant herbs hit his nose the second he stepped into the room.
He halted cold at the marvelous sight of it all.The priest slipped past him and sat on one of the fat cushions on the floor next to the table.
“Sit,” he beckoned.
Ethyr carefully nestled the basket in a corner of the room and sat across from the man.He reached out to the first plate in front of him, desperate to taste whatever the glistening golden-brown nuggets were.A smack on the top of his hand made him pull back reflexively and he turned an equally reflexive pout to the priest wielding a slender piece of metal.
“Sit properly,” he admonished.
Ethyr looked down at his crossed legs and back up.He hadn’t realized there was a proper way to sit.
“Tuck your legs under you,” the priest instructed impatiently when he didn’t move.“Don’t hunch your shoulders like that, keep them straight with your back.If you must relax, you can lean back on one arm, never forward.”
Ethyr had barely gotten his legs under him by the time the old man finished the other instructions.He shifted a little, trying to keep his back straight when the weight of his body on his legs was deeply uncomfortable.
“In civilized company, you do not eat with your hands unless the dish calls for it.”He held out the metal stick.It had two prongs on the end of it, like a tiny pitchfork.
“For cuts of meat and vegetables like this,” he pointed to the dish Ethyr had been reaching for, “you gently spear them one at a time.For longer or more malleable ingredients, you scoop them up with the forked end.”He pointed to a plate that held leafy vegetables smothered in sauce.“For sauces and soups, you use a spoon, though it is acceptable to tear off a piece of your bread and use that.”He gestured to the small loaf in front of Ethyr, a golden cream color he had only seen in the expensive sweet bread sold at the market.They were lucky to afford it once a year at a festival.
The priest thrust the tiny pitchfork towards him.Ethyr took it and used the prongs to stab a nugget and bring it to his mouth.
It was not just his hunger after fasting so long; it was without a doubt the most delicious thing he had ever eaten.The crispy exterior crackled under his teeth and broke to tender, moist meat on the inside.He started to shovel more into his mouth and was met with another hand smack.
“Eat slowly,” the priest ordered.“Sit up straight.”
He realized he had hunched over and pulled himself straight again with a sigh.“What’s the point of so many rules just to eat?”he muttered.
“The point is to show that you’re a refined, civilized person.Slovenly table manners demonstrate slovenly culture.”The priest carefully took his own bite of food.
Ethyr frowned.He still didn’t see what difference it made.Eating was eating: the food would end up in the same place regardless, who cared how it got there?
