“Aye,” Hamish answered. “He’s here to sample some of Mullhind’s finest.”
“Oh ho!” Ewan slapped his hand on the counter. He gave Darshan a wide grin, the smoky light turning his teeth yellow. “And what does his lordship wish to taste first?”
Darshan remained silent for a time, likely trying to decipher the accent.
Just when Hamish thought he might have to translate, Darshan said, “Wine would be good, right now.” The words came slowly, almost wistful. “Any will do, but a nice Nulshar Red would be preferable.”
Ewan frowned. He glanced at Hamish before leaning across the counter. “Is he serious?” He jerked his thumb towards Darshan as if the ambassador wasn’t a mere few feet away.
“I assure you, I am quite serious,” Darshan snapped back, the reply raising Ewan’s thick brows. Heat flashed in the ambassador’s eyes, his narrow-set nostrils flaring.
Hamish clapped a hand on Darshan’s shoulders. There was a lot of tension in that slender frame. Just what would the man do if he considered himself slighted? What was the spellster capable of? “You’re in Tirglas, your imperial highness.” Out the corner of his eye, he caught Ewan’s face growing greyer. “You should drink like a Tirglasian.”
His gaze swung Hamish’s way, becoming far warmer. “Then, what would you suggest?”
“How about we start with a couple of pints of me usual?” Hamish said to the barkeep.
“Getting him right into the strong stuff, your highness?” Ewan chuckled, a nervous edge weaving its way into the notes. He eyed Darshan warily. Did he understand that the ambassador was a spellster? Or was it the royal address Hamish had unthinkingly uttered? “Two usuals it is then.” The man tottered off back to a barrel crowding the other meagre ales. He returned bearing two wooden tankards with creamy white heads of foam and set them on the counter before moving on to other tasks.
Hamish took a swig of his drink, watching Darshan’s reaction out the corner of his eye as the man mimicked him.
Darshan smacked his lips and delicately wiped the foam from his moustache. “Tastes like sucking on an iron bar.”
Hamish chuckled quietly into his tankard. The man wasn’t wrong; there was a certain hint of iron in the aftertaste. Perhaps not to the extent Darshan suggested, but if all he usually drank was wine, then any Tirglasian drink might take a bit to acquire a taste for.
Regarding the tankard as if it was poisoned, Darshan took a slightly less bold sip before wrinkling his nose and setting the drink back down. “What absolutely ghastly stuff this is. Did I hear you proclaim this was your usual?”
Hamish nodded. “When I can escape the castle for a few hours.” His mother didn’t mind him spending time amongst the locals—he was the public face of his family, after all. But it had been some years since he’d been able to venture off unescorted.
“Then you, my friend, must have an iron stomach to match this swill. If I ever brought this home, they would likely use it to strip paint off the walls. This simply cannot be the best Mullhind has to offer.”
“If it’s that bad, then why are you still drinking it?” The spellster had been taking one hesitant gulp after another, almost punctuating each sentence.
Darshan glanced down, his brows lifting as if he was surprised the tankard was still within reach or so empty. “Why I do believe my senses are in shock. I must have gone catatonic for a while there. Or perhaps I simply cannot believe it is truly as bad as my tongue proclaims, but alas…” He took a long swallow, set the tankard down and shuddered.
Hamish ordered a second round.
Darshan treated it in much the same fashion, swallowing in small, shuddering sips. The ambassador seemed to sway on the stool, but he couldn’t possibly be drunk already, he hadn’t even finished his second tankard.
Hamish twisted in his seat, indolently leaning on the counter to take in the pub.
More people had filled the room. They crowded tables and jostled each other in games. Music had started up at some time between the two drinks, the source being a man plucking the string of a Udynean lyre and another beating a hearty tune on a drum. A few drunken louts danced in the centre of the room, some singing off-colour songs, the words garbled but vaguely Cezhorian.
He turned back to the ambassador, who sat with his back hunched to the crowd, idly swirling his drink. “I was wondering, what—?”
Darshan held up a finger as, with the other hand, he knocked back his drink before setting down the empty tankard. “Right, I believe I am sufficiently lubricated for questions.” He grinned up at Hamish. There was definitely a touch of cockiness to the quirk of his lips. “Ask away.”
“What’s with the eye windows?” Glass was expensive, with the best stuff coming from Niholia, maybe it was different in Udynea, but he’d never heard of people putting small circles of it in front of their eyes.
The man peered at him, those dark brows squeezing together in confusion. “The what?”
“The thing on your face.” Hamish twirled his finger near his eye, just in case the man still didn’t understand what he was enquiring about.
“You mean the glasses.” Smiling, Darshan touched the side of the frames where they seemed to curl behind his ears. “The lenses help me see. I am as blind as a mole without them.”
Hamish had heard of farmers struggling in their later years to pick out their stock on the fields, but never thought it could happen in younger people. What would a Udynean prince need to see so badly that he would be tied to such things as glasses? “And here
