One of the spinners said something and Damans turned to me. “These are my aunts, Kethrain and Doratie.” I fixed the names in my mind; Kethrain had a wider forehead and little gold drops hanging from her ears while Doratie was missing a tooth in her lower jaw. “Kethrain says you have pretty hair.”

“There are women in the lowlands would walk barefoot over hot coals to be as golden-fair as you ladies.” Flattery is always easier when it’s the truth.

Damans translated and all three laughed. I folded my hands in my lap and hoped no one thought it friendly to offer me needle or thread. These women might admire my hair but they’d be appalled at my sewing. I felt my smile becoming a little fixed, so I looked around again.

A tow-headed little girl peeped around her shoulder at me, unruly curls falling over her eyes. I winked at her and she whipped her head back around, hunching over her work and whispering to her neighbor. The old dame supervising was about to speak when Damaris clapped her hands together. My two new friends immediately stowed their work away while the children hastened to clear the table of slate pencils and counting frames. One fetched a cloth to wipe it down while others began setting places with polished pewter plates, cups and jugs.

The old craftsman, Garven, made his way slowly to the door, his back twisted with more than age. He pulled on a bell rope to send light brazen clangor ringing out across the valley. Approaching voices grew louder and soon the room was full of sturdy men and women in creamy linen, tan leather and brown wool, all with a similar cast to their features. There seemed to be no fixed seating pattern at the table; one girl swapped places with another and two little boys were forcibly separated by Damaris when they began messing about with their spoons. The only exception was a high-backed chair with solid arms set at one end of the table. A few moments behind everyone else the whitesmith and his lad appeared carrying the gold-worker, whose legs were wasted and useless. He was set on his seat, cushions wedged around him without fuss.

I hurried to sit between Sorgrad and Usara. “Accident or disease?”

“Cave-in down a mine,” Sorgrad replied. “Garven said he was lucky to survive it.”

I wouldn’t have called it luck myself but at least a cripple here looked better placed than a lowlander begging in the gutters. A couple of girls were ferrying plates to the women at the hearth. “I’d like chicken,” I told Sorgrad, seeing some go past.

“You are welcome,” one girl said in passable Tormalin, taking my plate.

“We teach them the lowland tongues since last year,” one of Damaris’ sisters said across the table. “Else the boys cannot trade and the girls not deal with travelers. More come every year, even to the uplands.”

One of the older men, flour dusting his shirt, spoke patent disapproval. Doratie rebuked him and I looked at Sorgrad. “It’s an old complaint,” he told me, “that lowlanders always expect us to speak their tongue but never learn ours.”

“You’d better give me some lessons,” I said ruefully.

Everyone was eating heartily and conversation swelled around us. One of the half-grown girls was casting longing eyes at the whitesmith’s lad and he was preening himself with that realization as he talked to the goldsmith. Two of the old men were having a heated discussion about something or other, punctuated every so often with a pointed interjection from Kethrain. I applied myself to an excellent meal of pot-cooked fowl.

Usara reached past me for some black bread. “You and I stand out like poppies in a cornfield here, don’t we?”

“Yes, but we knew that would be the case, didn’t we?” A girl appeared at my elbow with a foaming jug and I held up a bright pewter tankard. I felt easier to be an outsider here than being taken for kin in the Forest by folk superficially similar yet so strange. I sipped at the curious brew. Darker than any ale I’d come across, it had a resinous taste and an odd, oily quality. I realized I was being watched with amusement from all sides.

“What am I drinking?” I murmured to Sorgrad, the rim of the vessel hiding my lips.

“Fir beer.” He drained his own measure. “But there’s malted barley brew, if you prefer.”

I finished my drink, deciding that much was a point of honor, but laid a hand over my tankard when the lass went to refill it. “I think I’ll stick to what I’m used to.”

Damaris’ sister passed a jug giving off a reassuring scent of hops. “I’m Merial,” she introduced herself.

“I’m Livak, and this is Sorgrad,” I turned to my near hand, “and Usara.” ’Gren was some way down the table between two children with others all craning to see him rolling a coin down the back of one hand. He made it disappear, only to pluck it from behind the ear of a wide-eyed toddler sitting on his knee. “And that is Sorgren.”

“Middle Range names?” Merial was studying Sorgrad with a frank interest.

“True, but we left our homes long ago,” he said easily. “We have been traveling and dealing in the lowlands.”

“And your present business?” These Westerlings shared ’Gren’s directness. This truce clearly didn’t stop questions, even if it entitled us to refuse answers.

“My brother and I are thinking of returning to the uplands.” There was a hint of encouragement in Sorgrad’s pleasant smile. “We find ourselves traveling with this scholar,” he nodded to Usara, who was mopping the last of the gravy from his platter with yet more bread. The mage swallowed hastily. “I am an antiquarian of sorts and eager to learn the sagas told in the Mountains.”

Merial raised one fine golden eyebrow. “It’s seldom a lowlander thinks we of the heights might have worthwhile knowledge.”

“A true scholar respects all learning,” said Usara earnestly. “There is no single path to an enlightened understanding of this world and our place within it.” There was no mistaking his sincerity. If I could learn how to fake that, I’d have a fortune made inside a year.”

The old man barked some query, nodding at me. “I am a singer, a traveler,” I said readily enough. “I bought an ancient book with songs in the old tongues of Plain, Forest and Mountain. I want to learn their meaning.”

Merial smiled. “You must talk to Garven and to Doratie’s mother.”

“When I was a boy, such tales were told by Sheltya,” remarked Sorgrad casually.

Conversation around us faltered as that word fell on everyone’s ears. “Yes,” Merial said slowly. “That is so here.”

“I’ve only heard half-tales from those Easterlings who dwell in Gidesta,” Usara said with honest eagerness. “I would dearly love the chance to talk to your Sheltya. Are they not keepers of important knowledge?”

Merial looked at Sorgrad, who spoke to her in rapid Mountain speech, manner courteous and reassuring.

“That might be possible.” Merial turned to attract the attention of the old man sitting by Doratie. He shot a suspicious glance at Usara but as she continued his face grew more open and even a little smug. He nodded finally and Doratie added what sounded like approval.

“My uncle sees no harm in Sheltya judging you for themselves,” she told Usara, her eyes flicking to Sorgrad.

“How do we contact them?” asked Usara. “Forgive my ignorance.”

Merial shrugged. “When they are wanted, they will come. That’s always been the way of it.”

That sounded promising, I thought. From the little I’d learned from Guinalle, being able to hear thoughts from afar was a fundamental part of what she called Artifice.

A bowl of summer fruit mixed with toasted nuts and grain was set between us and my plate was swapped for a fresh one. A platter of flat oatcakes was added, with some rounds of bright white cheese. That had to be made of goats’ milk, even if I hadn’t smelled it coming. I opted for the fruit and grain.

Merial turned to talk to Doratie, drawing Sorgrad into their conversation. It was no hardship to sit quietly with my thoughts for a change. I let my mind idle through imagining what Ryshad was doing, wondering how Halice was finding life on the far side of the ocean as she captained the mercenaries defending the unlikely colonists of Kellarin. Unlocking the secrets of aetheric magic would give her increased protection against Elietimm greedy to seize that fertile land and kill any who disputed their claim. She was another friend depending on my success, so this scent had better lead to something.