The humans. Only humans, here.
No White or Dark Elves, no orcs, no dwarves. The signs also were in the human tongue, and there was nothing written in Elven, Dwarven or Orcish.
Alaire began to feel very uncomfortable for Nai- tachal. He glanced over at his Master, relieved to find his ridiculous hat completely covered the top, pointed portion of his ears. He looked human in every other way. Though he was the only black human among these people, he didn't seem to be attracting nearly as much attention as his gelding.
"This is a very . . . human settlement," Naitachal noted, echoing Alaire's thoughts. "Only humans."
"Yes, I see," Alaire said. "But let me point out that your absurd hat covers your ears. You look human."
Naitachal looked relieved. "Of course I do," he said, but didn't sound completely convinced. His nose wrinkled "I must have imagined that smell just then."
"What smell was that?"
The unmistakable odor of tar and feathers."
By the time they reached the castle, the sun pre- pared to set on the sea. Already the air had become considerably frostier; Alaire wished he had not packed up the dieren coat, even if it didn't go with anything he now wore.
Archenomen's palace was considerably larger than it had appeared from across the bay. A lesser wall sur- rounded it, perhaps for ornamentation, since it did not compare to the castle itself. Either by design or acci- dent, it was as black as Naitachal; every stone, every metal fixture, every wooden adornment, including the twin doors of the main entrance.
Guards dressed much like the ones who had approached them earlier that day came forward with, of all the silly things, ceremonial spears. Alaire smoth- ered a smile with faint amusement. They were thin and gaudy and would never make a suitable weapon; he would have preferred his own short dagger in a fight to one of those frail things. Alaire relaxed, know- ing no fight was likely to occur, in spite of the guards and their arrogant stance.
"State your business," one of the guards said with brusque politeness.
Naitachal rode forward, and bowed over the neck of his horse. "We have come to see the king of this land, Archenomen. I am Ambassador Naitachal, rep- resenting the kingdom of Althea, appointed by Reynard."
The two guards conferred privately, then one came forward to examine Naitachal's papers. Alaire could only suppose that he hadn't identified Naitachal Dark Elf, yet. His expression was bland as he took the letter and scroll back.
Nodding to the Bard, the guard said, "Go with him," indicating the other guard. "No horses," he added.
So here they dismounted, and stable hands appeared to take their horses. The doors were a good two stories high, and the knockers were so heavy the guard had trouble lifting one. One solid boom announced their presence.
A small window opened, through which the guard spoke to an unseen figure in the unknown tongue. He beckoned to Naitachal, who again relinquished his papers. The letter and scroll disappeared through this window, and the huge twin doors slowly opened.
The small figure who greeted them did not inspire fear or confidence. Alaire's first impression was of a man who had risen as far as he could as a servant, and still didn't like his position. He was old enough Alaire's father, but was thinner and more gaunt Naitachal. The livery he wore had all the trappings of an upper servant's attire, though a little less elaborate than what Alaire saw at home. What struck Alaire as odd was the long flowing cloak that trailed behind him. The thin fabric was useless for providing warmth.
The man certainly carried himself as if he thought he was serving in a place far below the rank he truly deserved. Does he have royal blood?
Alaire's first fear, however, was that the servant would spot him for what he was: royalty. Upper ser- vants had a way of spotting these things. Alaire looked away and tried to appear submissive, bowing his head slightly, as he had seen his father's secretary act at home.
"Please, enter," the servant said nervously. "Wel- come to the House of Archenomen. I am Paavo, the head of the house here. The guards inform me that you are... ambassadors from Althea?"
"Naitachal," said the Dark Elf. "And this is my sec- retary, Alaire of ... house Turonen," he added, improvising. "I do hope we haven't come at an inop- portune time. It's been a long hard ride, but i King isn't receiving today we would be pleased to call tomorrow."
Alaire stifled a laugh. It would be rude for a king to refuse to see any ambassador with proper credentials.
His Master's statement bordered on the impolite, as it suggested that Archenomen might commit a blunder by refusing to see them. Perhaps I'm assuming too much here, Alaire thought. This is, after all, a foreign land, with its own rules of etiquette. For all I know we are the ones being rude, calling without prior notifica- tion.
His first impression seemed to be correct, Paavo quickly ushered them through a grand gallery, where three young servants were lighting hundreds of small candles on a chandelier. They stared at Naitachal as they passed, but paid no attention to Alaire.