The fifth person was much older, perhaps fifty, and reminded Clariel of a crane, for he was very tall and thin, his nose was long, and he had tufts of grey hair that departed his head at angles that made them reminiscent of wind-ruffled feathers. Wearing a long coat of banded white and cream, clearly the colours of the Academy, he immediately stepped forward and gave a middle bow to Clariel and said, ‘Welcome. You are the last to join us. I am Master Dyrell, and this class is The Serving of Tea. Before we begin, we shall practise polite introductions. You have entered the room, therefore it is to you that we look to begin.’
‘My name is Clariel,’ replied Clariel, speaking to the room at large, without really looking at anyone other than Dyrell. ‘Daughter of Jaciel High Goldsmith and her consort, Harven.’
‘No, no, Lady Clariel,’ said Dyrell. ‘One at a time, one a time, beginning with the person of the highest order in the room.’
‘Who would that be, then?’ asked Clariel. ‘And how am I supposed to know?’
‘It will be a trifle difficult before you have met many people,’ admitted Dyrell. ‘But you can begin by looking at the indication of Guild, which will narrow the possibilities. Here, you see, there is but one High Goldsmith other than yourself, so naturally that person will be of the highest –’
Clariel interrupted him with a kind of snort that would not have been out of place coming from a disturbed boar, as she properly looked at the person in the white and yellow of the Goldsmiths. A young, handsome man with fair hair and strikingly blue eyes. Familiar eyes, that had winked at her the day before, just before the young man had made his escape after the mummery of his supposed attack upon her.
‘You!’ she said, following the snort.
‘I don’t believe we’ve met,’ said the man, with a smile that was nearly a smirk and, very annoyingly, the shadow of a wink. ‘I am Aronzo, son of Kilp, Guildmaster of the High Goldsmiths and Governor of Belisaere, and his consort, Marget.’
‘You see, that is how it is done,’ said Dyrell, with a curious glance at Clariel and then back at Aronzo. ‘Then we have –’
‘Actually I believe I should have precedence, even over High Goldsmiths,’ said a slighter, shorter young man with badly cut dark hair that made his fringe slant from left to right, above regular but not particularly handsome features, and skin rather too white to look healthy. He wore simpler clothes than Aronzo, dark blue on top with dull silver stripes showing through the cuts in his sleeves, with no other indicator, save a small silver badge of a single key high on his left arm, so unobtrusive Clariel almost missed it. ‘Being the Abhorsen’s great-nephew –’
‘Rat-catcher!’ said Aronzo, making it sound enough like a sneeze for Dyrell to be able to ignore him, though like everyone else present he must have heard it.
‘– and a cousin of the King,’ continued the pale young man, ignoring the interruption.
‘Yes, yes, we have been over this,’ said Dyrell testily. ‘This is not the old times, and in the modern age, certainly for the last very many years, it has been the custom in the city for guild rank to take precedence, save in some of the old ceremonies –’
‘It’s all right, Dyrell,’ said the black-haired man. ‘I’m just showing my cousin how things are.’
He made a bow to Clariel and she saw a glint of mischief in his eye. Aronzo pointedly yawned and made a faint show of covering it up by turning his head a fraction, as the pale young man continued.
‘Greetings, milady. I am Belatiel, and as we are kinfolk, please call me Bel,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, since I cannot claim a guildmember for a parent, I am something of a nuisance here. They never quite know what to do with me. I welcome a relative and –’
‘Now, Lord Belatiel, please, there are introductions remaining to be done, and there is a correct order to matters, tea to be poured and so forth, before we can make conversation. Lady Clariel, the ladies present are of the Spicers’ Guild, red and yellow alternated in double bands; and the Vintners, purple, green and silver. In the order of precedence as I have given them. Please introduce yourself.’
‘But they’ve already heard who I am,’ said Clariel.
‘Please, Lady Clariel,’ said Dyrell. ‘Once learned correctly here, you will never be embarrassed anywhere in the city.’
‘I don’t get embarrassed,’ said Clariel frankly. ‘I think it’s because I don’t really care –’
‘Please!’ beseeched Dyrell, with a flutter of his hand. ‘I do not wish to send you back to Mistress Ader.’
‘Oh,’ said Clariel. She didn’t want to be sent back to that formidable woman either, though the whole thing seemed ridiculous. She turned to face the young woman from the Spicers, who was tall, blonde and even-featured but not particularly attractive. Her nose was out of proportion to her face, and she made herself more unattractive as far as Clariel was concerned by looking down that long nose in a supercilious fashion.
‘Greetings. I am Clariel,’ said Clariel quickly. ‘Daughter of Jaciel High Goldsmith and her consort, Harven.’
‘Well met, Lady Clariel,’ said the Spicer, though her face gave no indication that it was indeed a happy meeting. ‘I am Yaneem, daughter of Guildmaster Querem of the High Guild of Spicers and her consort, Wihem, also a Spicer.’
Clariel immediately turned to the next young woman and rattled off the same greeting again, ignoring Dyrell’s wince as she sped through it. The Vintner looked a bit friendlier, Clariel thought. She was also tall and dark-haired, and perhaps could even be described as beautiful, or would be in a few years, as she had not yet grown into herself. She actually looked at Clariel as she replied, and there was warmth in her eyes, which were somewhere between blue and green.
‘Well met, Lady Clariel. I am Denima, daughter of Haralf of the High Guild of Vintners and his consort, Jonal, Undermistress of the Guild of Upholders.’
‘Now, please, my lords and ladies, be seated around the tea table,’ intoned Dyrell, indicating a fairly low, hexagonal table of pale timber with a tiled top, set with an unlit spirit burner, a small tin of friction lights, a highly polished metal kettle, an enamelled box that was open revealing tea leaves, a white ceramic teapot and six very pale yellow ceramic cups on even paler saucers. The table had six curiously foreshortened chairs around it, as if like the table, it was made for people a foot smaller than usual. ‘Highest precedence to the north chair, there, then clockwise around.’
Aronzo immediately sat in the north chair, and patted the seat next to him.
‘Here, Lady Clariel, before Bel tries to sit down.’
Clariel didn’t move. She didn’t like the way Aronzo was
patting the seat, like he was calling a dog to come and sit by him.
‘I will sit last, as Dyrell insists is the current mode,’ said Bel. ‘Yaneem and Denima, I am sure you will be happy to sit before I do.’
‘Conversation after the tea service,’ pleaded Dyrell. ‘You know that! Silence and decorum, please. A slight nod, a gesture, no more!’
Yaneem and Denima sat in the approved fashion, without speaking, leaving Clariel and Bel standing. Aronzo patted the adjacent chair to his left again, and smiled at Clariel in what he obviously intended to be a winning fashion. He was very handsome, she noted without favour. Combined with being Kilp’s son, that probably meant he was used to getting his own way with women as much as in anything else.
‘I am also close kin to the Abhorsen,’ said Clariel. ‘Perhaps I should sit in the least chair.’
‘No, no,’ beseeched Dyrell. ‘You are a goldsmith. It really isn’t difficult, Lady Clariel. You sit here, to the left of Lord Aronzo.’
He went and stood behind the chair, pulling it out a little. Aronzo slowly removed his hand. Clariel hesitated, then walked over and sat down, pulling the chair in herself before Dyrell could push it in from the back. Bel went to the sixth chair, leaving a gap after Denima, so he was next to Aronzo but on the right side, in the position of lowest precedence.
‘Please,’ sighed Dyrell, raising his eyebrows. Bel laughed and moved across one seat so there was no gap.
‘Now that everyone is correctly seated,’ said Dyrell, ‘we may begin the service of tea. Lord Belatiel, you will light the burner; Lady Denima lift the kettle; Lady Yaneem pass around the cups; Lady Clariel, you will measure the tea in the pot, three spoons; and then when the kettle boils, Lord Aronzo, you will fill the pot.’
‘What is the point of all this?’ asked Clariel.
‘The point? It is a ceremony, to quiet the mind, before conversation; and like all such ceremonies, is best done properly or not at all,’ replied Dyrell, his voice unable to hide his agitation.
‘Best go along,’ whispered Bel to Clariel, across Aronzo. ‘It’s quicker that way.’