"Greetings, noble Vokal." The words came out in a hoarse croak that grated against the host's sensitive ears.
"Greetings, noble Heglar." Vokal's smile seemed even dreamier than usual. "Remove your cloak, please, and be seated.... Bartan, tell a slave to bring us wine."
"At once, Most-High." The guard withdrew, closing the door softly.
Vokal's gray-blue eyes went to his guest and he smiled blandly. "I trust all is well with you and the members of your family, noble Heglar."
Stripped of his cloak, Heglar was revealed as a man of extraordinary thinness and considerable age. The pronounced hollows in his cheeks and a thin nose the dimensions of an eagle's beak, together with the rocky ridge of an underslung jaw, gave him an emaciated look. But his body was straight as a young sapling, his shoulders for all their boniness were surprisingly broad, and his light blue eyes were alert and piercing.
He ignored his host's solicitous inquiry concerning his family and bent and unknotted the thongs of his heelless sandals. Kicking them off he leaned back in his chair and, sighing with relief, placed his bare feet on a low stool in front of him.
If he caught the faint wrinkle of disgust about Vokal's shapely lips he ignored it. "You'll forgive an old man for humoring his feet," he croaked. "I'm not accustomed to long walks these days."
"By all means give them comfort."
"I tried to learn from your messenger the reason behind your asking me here tonight. He would tell me nothing—simply gave me your message, handed me your emblem piece—" he dug a hand into a pocket of the tunic, took out the square of gold and handed it to Vokal—"and left without another word."