7. Paris

Ireturned to the Hawk Clan tent in a daze, only having the presence of mind to slip my newly acquired knife into the back of my trousers at the very last moment when I realized my hosts might not take well to a stranger walking armed around their camp.

Truth told, I was unfamiliar with the feeling of walking around with a weapon on my person. Hector usually had a knife on his belt or in his boot, but he used it to open letters or cut apples, not to do violence.

My mouth had gone dry since the strange, gray-haired man had cornered me, and I—was I afraid?

It was hard to tell. Everything felt distant, like a dream where nothing could hurt me and I'd wake up in the morning, perhaps a little shaken but none the worse for wear.

I needed to knock myself out of this haze. If that man was telling the truth, I was in danger. If I was going to make it home, I had to keep my wits about me.

"You pack heavy, don't you, northerner?" the man who'd gone to help the footman asked, bending from stacking my last trunk against the edge of the tent.

"Leave him be, Owen." Brett had returned, the same confusion on his face that I felt.

Heh, perhaps someone had warned him that I was a cold-blooded killer and armed him against me.

I bit my lip, feeling sillier by the moment for thinking I'd needed to bring so much. "I wasn't sure what I'd need. I mean?—"

I snapped my mouth shut at once.

Gods, was I getting in my own way by admitting my ignorance? Surely, the Nemedans would want to think that King Albany had sent them a practiced diplomat, someone with an idea of the appropriate amount of luggage.

"Are you ready for supper?" Brett asked, graciously relieving me of having to appear sane and resourceful. "People are beginning to gather at the central tent."

"Sure," I said, a nervous smile wavering on my lips.

Brett didn't look like a murderer. He looked... well, he looked capable of a great many things, but he didn't seem on the edge of a mindless rage or anything.

There were a surprising number of people milling around, so many that it took me a while to realize that most had already been served. They were carrying wooden bowls, bread perched on top. And we were in line.

This whole time, we'd been queueing for supper. To be handed a bowl, ladled with something, like prisoners. I hadn't even realized there'd been an organization to our loitering.

I blinked fast, staring up at Brett. "You all eat together?"

His eyes narrowed skeptically. "Everyone here needs to eat, yes. Tomorrow will be a long day."

"I just mean—" I looked around at the people gathered. They were sitting in small groups, talking animatedly, as if to old friends.

The woman from before, Minerva, slipped in line beside us, no one kicking up a fuss about her breaking order. I wasn't sure if that was because she was a chief, or because we were all headed toward the same place to get—gods, we were all eating the same meal. Chiefs, diplomats, the man who'd carried my trunks, everyone.

At her side was another man who blinked so slowly it seemed strange. He looked around, turning his head first one way, then the other, taking a full thirty seconds to complete the gesture, a purse to his lips as if he was thinking rather hard.

"Glad to eat soon," he mumbled. Then, his wide silvery eyes found me. "You're the northern diplomat?"

I inclined my head. "Yes. Paris. It's nice to meet you."

Though I bowed to him, he continued staring.

"Owl Balthazar," he said, tilting his head to the side. "Did you travel far?"

"The better part of four days," I admitted. "It'll be nice to get somewhere and stay a while." Presumably, if the Nemedans gathered here for an all-clan meeting, it wasn't where they regularly sheltered. Surely the clan chiefs couldn't share power that comfortably.

"Hmm, yes. One cannot fly forever."

"Uh, yeah," I agreed. Did every Nemedan metaphor alude to birds? "Guess that'd be pretty tiring."

We got our food one by one and carried it over to a smaller fire where the Nemedans settled in comfortably.

They were all sitting on the ground. There were no tables, much less a head table where the chiefs sat, separate from and above the rest of us.

No, Chief Brett sat down on a log, his legs crossed at the ankle, his forearm balanced on his knee and his bowl pulled in close.

I'd never in my life eaten on the ground. Or, well, maybe when I was a baby too young to have proper manners.

I could already imagine the stitching on my clothes tearing, the damp seeping into my backside if I sat too long.

"Are you going to join us?" Brett asked, staring up at me with his eyebrow cocked.

It wasn't a challenge; I didn't think it was a challenge. His eyes weren't shining mirthfully the way that Chief Minerva's were as I stood there, unsure what to do.

In the end, I had no choice. I could hardly be the only person in their camp standing to eat. I stuck out enough already.

Carefully, I perched beside Chief Brett on the log. It wasn't as bad as I'd expected. The bark was dry, if not very comfortable, and my bent legs helped to keep the bowl balanced in one hand while I dragged the fresh bread through the meaty stew.

The stew was well seasoned. It was hardly the fanciest thing I'd ever eaten, but it was warm and filling, and better than I'd hoped for when Brett had led me to the communal cook pot.

But the bread? The bread was a revelation, fresh and soft, airy but dense with some kind of seeds on top. Gods, I could eat a whole loaf on my own.

"Good bread," I said oh-so-eloquently after I swallowed my first bite, just before scooping up some more stew and taking another.

"Ah, yes, a highlight of these gatherings," Minerva said. "The Hawks do make a lovely loaf."

I glanced at Brett. Really? If I could eat bread like this every day, perhaps this whole ordeal wouldn't be so bad.

Brett shrugged, taking another bite of his dinner. "We grow most of Nemeda's wheat."

"Oh..." Maybe they grew the fruit the king wanted as well. I might not be terribly placed amongst Brett's clan, assuming the man himself didn't kill me.

I ate my bread too fast, and I wanted to ask for seconds, but I didn't see anyone else getting up to go for more. That custom, at least, was familiar. Everyone at the table got a serving before anyone went in for seconds. Just, in Urial, the servants and serfs didn't join the lords and ladies.

Still, I'd have liked another piece of bread.

While I was eyeing the cook pot and the bread beside it, Owen came up and laid a hand on Brett's shoulder. "Duck wants a word about the cotton yields before you go to bed."

I stared up at him, my mouth slack. "I'm sorry, there's a Duck clan?"

Balthazar blinked slowly, staring at me with round, wide eyes. "Of course. They're the best fishers in Nemeda."

They were all looking at me like I'd lost my mind, and I worried maybe I had. Was this place so different than home, that the people hardly spoke the same language?

"It's just..." I waved between the three of them. "I get the whole birds of prey thing. Most noble families in Urial have crests, and my family's has flowers, but there are some who take the sigil of a bear or a lion—something intimidating and ferocious."

"That is not the Duck's purpose," Balthazar said.

"Well, no, but it's a little like taking on the rabbit as your sigil—it invites doubt from your enemies."

"The Duck do not have enemies. They serve their role better than any other. It would be foolish to challenge them."

"It's that simple?" I asked.

Balthazar shrugged, looking down into his bowl. "For the Duck, it is."

"It's not so for everyone," Minerva said.

"The Raven and Crane do most of the fighting in Nemeda," Brett explained.

"Really?" I could believe that of Minerva. She was... uniquely intimidating. But I didn't think of cranes as particularly ferocious. "And what about the hawks?"

"Hawks provide," Minerva answered.

After that, everyone went quiet, and I couldn't help feeling that I'd made a misstep somewhere along the way. Or maybe, they were all just more interested in finishing their meals.

"That's not what I would've guessed," I said, when the silence had stretched on too long, "but I appreciate the insight you've given me. Moving forward, I'll try not to make so many assumptions."

Balthazar hummed.

Minerva grinned and said, "Wise."

And Brett simply sat there, staring at me like I really was speaking an entirely different language.

After a few seconds holding his gaze, he shook himself. "I should see what Chief Nestor wants before it gets too late."

Brett rose with a sigh, but before he turned to go, he held out a hand. For half a second, I thought he was inviting me along.

Then, he only asked, "Can I take your bowl, Paris?"

"Oh, um, yes. Thank you."

He took it, and I sat there with a bunch of feather-bedecked strangers with my hands pinched between my knees to keep me from shaking my legs and drawing attention to my nervousness.