First, she spent a profitable hour in the kitchens, informing the staff of her plans and terrifying them with casually dropped tales of what had happened to slaves whose food and service displeased the Great Lords who would be her guests. Of course, one thing that separated her establishment from that of other Elvenlords was that her meals relied on the skills of her kitchen-slaves and not on illusion—now her servants would exert themselves to the utmost to please.
She did not trouble herself about the menu; her chief cook would determine that. He knew what was best, freshest, at its
peak of ripeness; he knew what fowl, fish, and meats were at perfection. She could leave all that to him, and set about delivering the invitations via teleson to her select Great Lords—six of them altogether, including Lord Kyndreth and his son Gildor. Gildor was a bore, but she would see that his simple needs were taken care of.
All male, of course; there would be one female, but only a human slave, Gildor's favorite concubine. He was absurdly faithful to the creature, but when Lord Kyndreth issued a delicate hint that Gildor would probably want to bring her, she laughed lightly.
"Children must have their toys, mustn't they?" she said, with just a hint of mockery. "No matter, my lord. I shall supply the rest of you with comely companions, so she will not be conspicuous. I may not specialize in such slaves, but I promise that you will be contented with what I supply."
"That will suit me very well," Lord Kyndreth replied, from the depths of the teleson embedded in the wall across from her desk, which was normally hidden behind the draperies there. He seemed just as amused by his offspring's dogged infatuation as Triana was. "Your hospitality will be gracious, as always."
"Then I can expect you tomorrow night." She smiled at him, exerting all her charm. "Good. You still have my teleson-key I assume?"
"I never let it out of my keeping," he assured her, as all of the others had. "Till tomorrow night, then?"
"Till tomorrow night." She allowed him to break the connection, and sat back in her chair, well-content for just a moment.
But only for a moment, for she had a decision to make. Should she display her expertise in magic, by creating a fantastical setting for her party, or distinguish herself by hosting the dinner with no magic whatsoever?
With magic, she decided after long consideration. But it must be subtle. These men were experts in powerful magic, and it would be far more impressive to caress them with surroundings that had a calm depth than to bombard them with—say—an enchanted exhibition of song and dance.
Subtlety would take time to produce; she had better start on it now.
She let the chair glide back on its rails, and took herself to her dining room, walking around it to study every angle.
Should she attempt an illusion of space, or create an atmosphere of intimate enclosure?
The aura of intimacy would be better for her purposes.
She called in her servants, and set them to removing the dining table and chairs from her last party and replacing them with two-person dining couches with attendant tables. By the time they returned with the moss-green, velvety drapes she wanted for the couches, she had decided on the theme.
Overhead, stars. As a backdrop, moss-covered stones, as if this place was a deep and narrow, secret valley. Slowly, arid with great care, Triana built up the illusion as she sat on one of the couches, spinning it out of air and energy. She placed, and re-placed each stone, each graceful tree, each tiny violet, until she was satisfied with the balance and harmony. Tendrils of energy formed into branches and dissolved again until she was happy with the effect.
A waterfall? No. Everyone had waterfalls lately; they'd been done to death. Instead, she simulated the calls of frogs and crickets, and a single nightingale.
She called for refreshments and real trees in tubs that would be masked with draped vines, supervising the slaves as they moved the real trees into position around the six couches. It was already past sundown, but her guests would arrive well before dinner tomorrow, and she must have the dining room ready long before then.
She overlaid an illusion of moss on the carpet, visual only, as the carpet itself was soft enough to the tread to please. That left only scent—easily taken care of with no illusion at all. She left orders for garlands of flowers and leaves to be draped between the tubbed trees and wreathed around the couches.
She sat down on one of the couches and surveyed her work with a critical eye, making minute changes here and there so that the grotto appeared random, entirely natural. Even the sky
overhead was a clever variation; she had keyed the stars to follow the movements of the real sky. By the time she declared herself finished, she was exhausted with the unaccustomed labor. But it would all be worth it, tomorrow.
Triana surveyed her guests and smiled openly. Gildor and his favorite concubine were installed on the most private of the couches, at the rear of the grotto. Gildor clearly considered this to be a favor, not an insult—and so, evidently, did his father.
Each of the other five guests shared his couch with an attractive female slave, too, but these men were all powerful and probably had concubines that made these girls look like field-slaves. For them these slaves were nothing more than sentient furniture that served them silently without needing direction— pleasant accoutrements, which demonstrated the thoroughness and thoughtfulness of their hostess, but nothing more. They ate and talked as if the girls weren't even there. And the girls had been well-schooled, if not given the kind of intensive training that Triana lavished on her male slaves; they acted on the needs of their temporary masters before those masters even knew they had a need. Cups were refilled after a single sip, plates replaced with ones filled with new dainties the moment the hot foods began to cool or the cool ones to warm.
Triana herself had no companion, and ate very little. Her guests had loosened up enough to begin to speak of Council business, and she waited for the subject of Lord Kyrtian to come up, as Gildor dallied with his concubine, completely oblivious to his elders.
It was Lord Kyndreth who broached the subject, launching into a description of the aftermath of the climactic battle that routed the Young Lords.
"So where are the wretches?" asked Lord Wendrelith, his brow wrinkled with suppressed anger. "All that's been captured are slaves."
"Scattered like flushed quail—but unlike quail, they aren't regathering," Lord Kyndreth replied. "I suspect that they've each concocted bolt-holes during the time they were holding us
off, and now they've gone to ground. How much time and effort are you willing to spend in tracking them to their lairs?"
"Not nearly as much as it will take, I suspect," said Lord Van-drien dryly.
"It will be a massive effort," Lord Kyndreth agreed. "Every tracking team will have to have a lord with it—one whose loyalty is unquestioned and cannot be subverted. Human slaves can be deceived or corrupted."
Lord Wendrelith shook his head in disgust. "Ancestors! We'd either have to track them down one at a time—"
"Which would take forever, even by our standards—" Triana interjected softly.
"—or strip our estates of supervisors. Neither is a viable option," Kyndreth said, nodding.
Triana, seeing that she had not been rebuffed, put in another of her observations. "Aren't they now crafting their own punishment?"
Another of the Great Lords turned his full attention to Triana. "That is a very interesting idea, my Lady," Lord Arentiel-lan said, with an intensely alert expression in his eyes. "Could you elaborate?"
"They cannot have more than one or two slaves apiece; they dare not collect in groups of more than three. They will not have anything that we think of as decent housing—not so much as a hunting lodge. They are likely to be living in caves or other crude shelters. None of them are truly powerful magicians; if they wish to eat, they must steal, hunt, gather—with their own hands and those of the one or two slaves they still retain." She laughed, in a voice low and husky. "It is entirely possible that many of them are out there, burning their dinners over smoking fires, only to shiver through the night in scant shelter, even as we speak." She smiled sweetly. "I cannot imagine a punishment worse than that—living like a wild human, and knowing that the only way to rectify the situation is to come groveling back to us."
All five of the Great Lords stared at her for a long time; then Lord Kyndreth broke out in unexpectedly loud laughter, in
which he was joined by the rest. Gildor looked up at them for a moment without interest, then went back to his concubine.
"By the Ancestors, my Lady, I think you have the right of it!" said Lord Arentiellan with admiration. "My miserable brat is certainly welcome to all the burned rabbit and rain he can stand."
"What of the army, Kyndreth?" asked Vandrien. "If it were up to me, I'd disband them."
To Triana's veiled joy, the rest murmured agreement.
"It's up to the full Council, of course," Kyndreth demurred. "And there are the Wizards to think of."
"True ..." Vandrien mused.