Heat crept into his cheeks as Hamish allowed his husband to lead the way across the room. Not the inferno it once was, he was getting better at controlling it, but the eyes tracking their passage certainly didn’t help.
The building’s patrons lounged on either benches or nests of pillows piled high at their backs. A number of these latter folk were grouped around strange, bottle-shaped braziers with oddly flexible tubes, occasionally blowing more smoke out into the air. They all stared at him, likely taking in the plainness and travel-worn state of his attire.
“Did you have to do that?” Hamish muttered. Darshan had also flashed his signet ring to the ship captain, who had fallen over himself to accommodate them just like the young woman.
“One of the perks of my status.”
Hamish frowned. “I hope you dinnae expect me to act like that.”
“Of course not. I rather doubt they would respond in a similar manner anyway. The idea of the vris Mhanek having a husband would be unheard of.” He twisted to peer at the entrance the woman had disappeared through. “Although, I suppose that will change rather rapidly now.” Turning back, he grimaced. “And don’t look at me like that, I plan to pay them. It’s just nice to have the symbol recognised.”
More gossamer curtains hung along the walls and between ornate pillars, some clearly framing off other entrances. Darshan parted one and stepped into a small, enclosed garden. A pond sat in the middle, its surface shimmering as orange fish swam in lazy circles just beneath the surface. Stone tables dotted the area between beds of flowers and drooping trees, the path to them marked out with wide slabs of stone.
A few people already sat at a table farthest from the entrance. They eyed Hamish and Darshan with great interest for a while, before returning to their conversation. Occasionally, one would look their way as Darshan made for a table on the opposite end of the garden, but they seemed disinterested. Was it the fact Darshan still held his hand that drew their eye? They couldn’t know Darshan was their vris Mhanek. Or did they?
They briefly stumbled upon another table tucked behind a hedge where a couple of young men sat too engrossed in staring into each other’s eyes to realise they’d been spotted. Hamish glanced back before the pair was obscured from view once again. They had to be in their late teens, yet here they were, more or less out in the open. He never would’ve dared.
Hamish settled at their chosen table. The middle had been hollowed out to set a little brass brazier inside. Darshan lit the coals with a flick of his fingers.
Servants passed constantly, always offering up cakes and bowls of small, powdered cubes that Hamish couldn’t identify. He politely waved them away even as Darshan snaffled up several trays.
It wasn’t too long before one of those trays bore two, small cups of dark brown liquid. Steam radiated from the contents as the servant set the tray on the table and, bowing low, left them without a word.
“You simply must try some of this.” Darshan placed one of the cups into Hamish’s hands. “It’s a Niholian drink, very popular in most of the empires. They call it kofe.”
Hamish lifted the cup to his lips. The sharp acrid scent assaulted his senses before he could take a sip. Nevertheless, he braved a mouthful.
Bitterness washed over his tongue. Hamish spat the liquid back into the cup and held it far from him as his body shuddered and his eyes made a valiant attempt to roll back into his skull. “Are you trying to poison me?” He set the cup down on the tray of a passing servant. It had to be some sort of prank, the kofe tasted only of ash and dirt.
“Hold on.” Darshan ushered a nearby serving woman closer. After a few words in hushed tones, the woman returned with another tray sporting two cups, a pot of amber syrup and a bowl piled with what looked to be sand in colour and texture.
“I forget it can be a bit on the strong side to the uninitiated. I have been a constant consumer since my Khutani, but I am aware it can be an acquired taste.”
Hamish eyed his husband’s hands as Darshan busied himself with preparing a cup. He wasn’t entirely sure it was a taste he wanted to acquire.
Darshan continued, seemingly none the wiser as to Hamish’s hesitation. The kofe was poured from its pitcher into a silver cup with a long handle. From there, his husband tipped the foam into one of the two ornate porcelain cups before putting the rest onto the bed of glowing coals nestled into the brazier.
“The current trend is to have sweet foods with it—cakes, dates, candied fruit and the like—but I’ve always rather preferred it this way,” Darshan said, his voice distant whilst his gaze remained intently on the kofe. He drizzled a generous amount of syrup into the silver cup, stirring occasionally and removing it from the coals only once the slightly paler brown liquid within had started to bubble. “Perhaps you will also find this a little more palatable.”
Transferring the liquid to the cups that were already full of foam, Darshan set the silver cup down and lifted the porcelain cup in both hands to inhale deeply over its contents. Contentment lit his face. “Try it now,” his husband insisted, offering up the cup.
Hamish bent over the table to take a sip without relinquishing Darshan of the cup. Bitterness still lurked in the aftertaste, but its edge had been smoothed by the familiar taste of honey and something even sweeter. Satisfied, he took the cup and tried another mouthful.
Licking his lips, Darshan slid over a tray of small pink cubes covered in white powder. “Now these are a purely Udynean dish from the south.” He picked up a cube and popped it into his mouth, giving a decadent groan as he chewed.
Hamish plucked
